


Trouble All My Days

by DarcyDelaney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Very loose) O Brother Where Art Thou AU, Adventure, Alternate Universe - 1930s, F/M, Fighting, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Past Abuse, Prison Escape, Unwitting Folk Superstars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyDelaney/pseuds/DarcyDelaney
Summary: One year, six months, and fifteen days—that’s how long Dean Winchester’s been sitting in jail for robbing a general store, soon to be joined by his brother, Sam. When they devise a plan to escape and get Sam back home to his soon-to-be fiancée, they’ve got no choice but to take the third member of their chain gang, Castiel Novak, with them. Dean’s been trying to crack the case of the irritatingly silent (and infuriatingly handsome) Castiel since he’d arrived, with no luck. Once they manage to lose their shackles, the three of them embark on an adventure running from the law and making a name for themselves as wanted fugitives, unsuspecting tagalongs to a bank robbery, and folk superstars, with Dean falling harder and faster for Castiel all the while. Perhaps the whole thing—every unexpected, haphazard minute of it—is all it’ll take for Dean to finally figure out what’s going on in Castiel’s head…and maybe find his way into his heart, as well.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 31
Kudos: 91
Collections: DCBB 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! Thanks for checking out my DCBB, based this year on one of my favorite movies, O Brother Where Art Thou? Before we hop in, some shout-outs for those who helped turn this weird little fic into the story it is today. Their energy, enthusiasm, and talents helped make it so, so much better than I could've imagined:
> 
> The wonderful and ridiculously talented [Mack](https://impmakesart.tumblr.com/) is responsible for the incredible art you'll find throughout the fic. I love his art, and was so, so excited to see that he had chosen my story during claims. He nailed every! single! thing! and I couldn't be more grateful to have had the chance to work with him. Please [check out his masterpost](https://impmakesart.tumblr.com/post/632365723271987201/trouble-all-my-days) and leave him all the love!
> 
> The delightful and lovely [contemplativepancakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemplativepancakes/pseuds/contemplativepancakes) took this story under her wing and made it ten times better in more ways than I can list, and I'm super grateful to her for her patience, talents, and friendship. Her DCBB (about WRESTLING!!!) just posted, so be sure to [treat yo'self and check it out!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524677/chapters/67311145)
> 
> The awesome [NikkiSage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikkiSage/pseuds/NikkiSage) loved this story when it was nothing more than two opening paragraphs and a vague idea; she gave me the encouragement to try my hand at something a little new in the first place.
> 
> And to all of you! Thanks for taking the time to check this out. I really hope you enjoy it, and that it gives you a break from, well, everything. Stay safe out there <3.
> 
> Also, a couple of small housekeeping notes: Liberties were taken with a bunch of things in this fic, but (probably) most notable are the name of the prison TFW is at (I know it doesn't make sense, I'm just a big Blues Brothers fan, okay) and basically everything involving court systems (if it reads like a Law & Order episode, well...apologies, but still, please enjoy!).

Dean’s finally gotten used to the feeling of shackles around his ankles.

It’d taken a while, sure—one year, six months, fifteen days, to be exact—but he doesn’t even give the heavy irons clamped around his feet a second thought anymore. They’re just _there_. Part of him now, in a way.

It’s almost sad, Dean thinks, rotating one ankle, then another, listening to the way the chains clank together in the darkness, mixing with the sounds of Sam’s snores and Novak’s steady breathing beside him. After all this time, they’ll be gone soon. They’ve become second-nature to him, so much so that it feels wonky for him to walk the few times a day he’s _not_ wearing them, for meals and showers and the occasional bout of good behavior. 

Dean laces his fingers together behind his head and leans back, closing his eyes as he crosses one ankle over the other. Soon enough, he won’t have to worry about them anymore. About any of it. No more having an audience for every move he makes, no more listening to that goddamn snoring right next to his goddamn head, no more complaints about him _breathing too loud_ or _using too much pomade on his hair_ or _spittin’ tobacco too close to Sam’s shoes—it’s_ disgusting, _Dean!_.

Because tomorrow—one year, six months, and sixteen days later—come hell or high water, Dean Winchester’s getting out.

Dean likes to tell folks that he and Sam ended up here after getting caught doing something full of bravado and old-school cool, running a speakeasy or robbing a bank like in the movies. Sometimes he’d spend lunchtime waxing poetic about the wild streak in him and his brother, the car chase they got in trying to avoid the cops, the way he’d taken down four officers—four!—single handedly before he and Sam were betrayed by their partner and left to pay the price for all three of ‘em.

If word ever got out that he’d actually been busted for shoplifting while Sammy was hauled in for practicing law without a license...well, he would just never show his face again. Simple as that.

Sam hates when Dean talks about it, but Dean reckons their cell mate, Novak, whose first name Dean still hasn’t been able to wheedle out of him, hates it even more. In fact, he probably hates everything about the Winchester brothers, but Dean can’t tell for sure—the man’s never said more’n a few words at a time ever since he got chained up with Sam and Dean. He’d joined their ranks eight months and two days ago, bumping their gang up from two to three.

Dean hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him for just as long.

It’d be one thing if their new cell mate was just your run-of-the-mill schmuck, but Novak—Novak, with his husky voice, strong legs, and blue eyes that always seem to already be looking at Dean whenever he glances over—ain’t your run-of-the-mill anything. It’s bad enough being chained to your kid brother, but adding a looker who ticks all Dean’s boxes…

It’s better if Dean just ignores him.

Or at least tries to.

_Try_ being the key word, because as it is, Dean’s stuck next to Novak for ten hours a day, listening to him make noises that’re nothing short of obscene as he works. Dean tries to focus—really, he does—but when one of the most handsome men he’s ever seen is just standing there looking like _that_ , it...well, it throws a wrench into things.

Sam’s called him out on it before: sometimes his kid brother’ll catch him during breaks just watching Novak. Dean insists it’s nothing more than curiosity (who _wouldn’t_ be curious about someone who’s all but refused to talk since the moment he got here?), and while that may be true, he also knows that curiosity sure ain’t synonymous with disinterest.

There ain’t much else to do during the day, so he spends his time wondering what it’d be like—to tangle his hands in Novak’s dark, messy hair; to feel Novak’s lips against his own, nipping at his throat, his shoulders, his chest, before slowly making their way down his body; hell, to just get him to crack a goddamn _smile_. That last one should earn him a medal of honor. 

But it won’t. Because none of it’s gonna happen.

Dean’s learned the hard way not to express interest in another man unless he’s following the guy’s lead, and Novak sure as hell ain’t leading shit. So Dean does what he does best: he covers it up, convinces himself that whatever he’s feeling for Novak is just a fantasy. Because the chances—ha, the _chances_ , as if there were any in the first place—that Novak would see him as anything other than the loudmouthed, opinionated, complicated asshole he knows he is are nonexistent. It doesn’t bother him, though; it’s never bothered him, it never will, and maybe, if he believes hard enough, he can almost convince himself that’s true.

Escaping had started out as a fantasy at first, nothing more than a way to pass the time as they yearned for their old lives, Dean taking over the Winchester farm and making it something to be proud of, Sammy desperate to get back to his girl. She’s sweet, that Jessica Moore, from a good family too. Well off. Sam’s just as sweet, but the Winchester name ain’t exactly synonymous with _flush with cash_. Didn’t matter, though; they’d been a good match, so good that Dean had been able to practically hear the wedding bells the second his little brother laid eyes on her. He hadn’t been wrong either—before getting thrown in Joliet, Sam had started planning a fancy proposal for her near the bandstand in Lawrence center, complete with flowers, a gleaming diamond ring, and even a banjo player to soundtrack the whole thing.

Seeing that faraway look in Sam’s eyes for months on end, him gettin’ sadder and sadder with each passing day...Dean needed something else to focus on, something to distract him from the pain his brother was feeling, and the fact that there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it.

Which is how he started noticing things.

Things like the tiny little hole in the chainlink, the invisible lines where wardens would stop and pivot on their horses while monitoring their work outside, leaving blind spots a mile wide.

Okay, maybe they were only a foot or two, but give a Winchester a foot, and he’ll take a mile.

When Dean had first broached the topic of escape with Sam—“Come on, man, I know how much you miss her”—it hadn’t taken much convincing. They went from there, combining their observations, taking what started out as a half-baked hypothetical and turning it into a full-fledged plan.

Hell, if it’d been written down on paper, Dean reckons he would’ve framed the damn thing, it was such a work of art.

What _should’ve_ been the toughest part of the plan, though—trying to figure out the right spiel to get Novak on their team once they realized they’d have to drag him along with them—ended up proving even easier than getting Sam to come around. When they’d first sprung the idea of flying the coop, he’d just stared at them, no comment. Makes sense, when Dean thinks about it—ain’t like he’d had much of a choice, what with them being chained together and all, but Dean’d be damned if they didn’t still run it by him, courtesy’s sake and all that.

Dean had originally cooked up an elaborate story about a treasure to pitch him, full of curses, witchcraft, and family heirlooms, something to whet Novak’s appetite for adventure (everyone has one, even the brooding, silent types, right?) and get him invested. He’d been proud of the thing, too—good pace, a plot, and most important, believable as hell. 

_“And it’s just sitting there, waiting for us,” Dean says late one night after everyone else had long since turned in, eyes big and hands splayed wide like he’s telling ghost stories to kids round a campfire. “Me ‘n Sam, here, we’re the only ones who can open it—Winchester blood and all—but if someone finds it before we get to it, up and moves it, then we’re shit outta luck. That’s why we gotta act fast._

_“So?” Dean looks at Novak expectantly. “What d’ya say?”_

_Dean had been expecting questions, hesitations, some spit to the face,_ some _thing, but all he gets out of Novak is a quiet, simple, “All right.”_

_Dean’s grateful for the darkness around them when his eyebrows shoot up. “All right? ‘All right’ as in ‘Good?’”_

_“I don’t know any other way to use that phrase.”_

_Dean pauses, trying to decide whether or not the amount of sass in Novak’s answer is acceptable. When he finally decides that it is, he grins wide and rubs his hands together. “Well, then! Keep the attitude in check, and we’ve got ourselves an escape team.”_

_It may have been dark, but Dean doesn’t miss the wide-eyed look Sam throws his way at his lack of hesitation in welcoming Cas into the fold. He rolls his eyes and holds up a single finger in pause, giving Novak one more classic Dean Winchester smile as his brother grabs hold of his elbow and hauls him off to the side, giving them as much privacy as the chains will allow._

_“_ What _, Sam?” he hisses._

_“I’m not sure he’s all in.”_

_Dean scoffs. “He’s fine.”_

_“Come on, Dean, what kinda guy is fine with breaking out of prison literally attached—” Sam grabs a handful of chain and shakes it, because he’s nothing if not a bit overdramatic sometimes, “—to two brothers he barely knows, without any convincing whatsoever?”_

_Dean quirks an eyebrow. “What, a massive fucking treasure ain’t enough of a reason for you?”_

_Sam glares at him._

_“Have some faith, huh? He’s in, thanks to my quality storytelling. Didn’t even get to the good parts, already had him hooked.”_

_“Really? You really think that crazy story was enough to fool him? It’s straight out of a fairytale, Dean!”_

_“I don’t remember_ you _complaining when you were a kid.”_

_That shuts him up, but Dean barely waits for Sam to start looking guilty before leaning over and clapping a hand on his back. “Look,” he says flatly. “Is it weird? Sure. Is_ he _weird? No doubt. So, as far as I’m concerned, his reaction’s right on target, and I got no interest in looking a gift horse in the mouth. Suggest you do the same._

_“We’re all right,” Dean continues quietly when his little brother doesn’t look any more at ease. “We’ve made it through worse. If anybody’s got the smarts_ and _the balls to pull this off, it’s the goddamn Winchesters, and you know it.”_

_It’s not a total endorsement, but Sam’s hint of a smile is enough to make Dean feel better. He squeezes his shoulder in affirmation before turning back to Novak, who’s gazing off out of their cell into the dark, abandoned hallways. Dean wishes, just for a second, that he could get a glimpse of what’s inside Novak’s head, what he’s thinking about._

_“All right, Novak,” Dean says, adding extra emphasis on the “all right” and crossing his arms over his chest. “Let’s get started.”_

It’d taken a lot to get to this point—a lot of planning, trial and error, and more tears than Dean would like to admit, but when he settles down to sleep that night, he can’t help but lean into the tiny spark at the idea of newfound freedom right at their fingertips. 

All three of them have their reasons for getting out, he knows that, but each and every one of them is now on his shoulders, and his alone. It’s his responsibility to take what’s thrown itself together in his head and make it real, make it work.

It shouldn’t be that hard. Thinking back, it’s a solid plan, yes, but it’s also a simpleton plan. Nothing like the escapes he’d seen in movies (when he’d been able to sneak in), or in the stories he’d stay up into the wee hours of the morning reading to Sammy. By all accounts, it’s fucking _dumb_. 

Now, Dean just hopes it’s dumb enough to work.

* * *

One year, six months, and sixteen days later, it’s sunny, and he’s the first one awake. Dean stretches long and deep as their cell starts to brighten with the early-morning shafts of light peeking through the tiny window up near the ceiling. It’s the last day: the last day he’ll wake up in this cell, the last day he’ll have to wear this idiotic jumpsuit, the last day he’ll be a prisoner in more ways than one.

It’s also the first day he’s felt anything even remotely close to hope, and he intends to ride it all the way to the finish line.

A quick glance at Sam and Novak—both still asleep—has him rolling his eyes. The anticipation of today had been killing him, making him sleep like shit, as bad as he used to on Christmas Eve when he was a kid, so the sight of these two dumbasses sleeping like rocks next to him has him rousing them out of sleep a little harsher than necessary. 

“Up and at ‘em, fellas,” he says loudly, shoving Novak hard enough that the guy inadvertently throws an elbow Sam’s way. Sam groans and turns over, reaching clear over Novak and nearly smacking Dean in a move so coordinated Dean finds it hard to see as accidental. 

Dean twists out of his brother’s range of motion and points a warning finger his way. “Watch it, Sammy.”

“Watch y’rself,” Sam mutters, voice still heavy with sleep. 

Dean smirks, and is about to tell his brother off again when Novak pokes his head up, and Jesus Christ, Dean’ll never be prepared for that hair, mussed five ways from Sunday and making him look like he’s just stepped out of an adult movie.

And _then_ Novak’s got the _audacity_ to run his hands through it, make it even worse, damn near drive Dean up the goddamn prison walls—

He wets his lips, closing his eyes before giving himself a light smack across the cheek to wake himself up. When he opens his eyes again, Sam’s staring at him. “What was that?”

“Nothin’. Just passing time waiting on you slowpokes to get up.” He tries to grin, but it’s overtaken by a yawn again as he reaches over and punches each of them on the shoulder. “Ready for today, boys?”

Sam’s head snaps toward Dean, panic sparking in his eyes. “Shut up,” he hisses, lunging across Novak to cuff Dean upside the head, shooting a quick glance down the corridor. 

“ _What_?” Dean snaps, rubbing at the sore spot before bending down, scooping up a length of chain, and tossing it toward his brother’s calves in an effort to trip him up—or at the very least, piss him off. 

“Don’t go giving ‘em any reason to suspect anything,” Sam breathes, his voice barely there.

“I meant for work. Business as usual. Another day, another dollar, right?” He winks, clicking his tongue against his teeth in the way he knows Sam can’t stand.

“There’s no currency changing hands here,” Novak says quietly, not even looking at them.

Sam and Dean stare at him, then at each other. Neither of them expect a peep out of Novak in general, so for it to come now of all days, and in the form of a dispute, no less, is unexpected, to say the least. 

“‘Course not, pal,” Dean says slowly, resting a hand on Novak’s shoulder and squeezing. “Just a turn of phrase. Don’t worry about it.” His grin fades away when Novak doesn’t return it, just stares at him. He tries to nod, play it off as just some unspoken banter, then turns around with an exaggerated “Oh- _kay_.” 

He glances at Sam and twirls a finger around near his ear, rolling his eyes. As handsome as he is, guy’s clearly still a few screws short of a toolbox. “Fine, then, how about this. Let’s get some hypothetical dollars for these hypothetical da—”

“I’m not crazy,” Novak says, and that has Dean freezing mid-sentence.

He turns around one more time. “Don’t gotta plead your case to me.” He jerks his thumb back toward the wardens making their way through the jail, rousing any still-sleeping prisoners from sleep. “Take it up with them.” Keeping his eyes on Novak, he smacks Sam on the chest with the back of his hand. “C’mon, Sammy, let’s go.”

Sam stares at him, then looks down at the chains snaking along the floor. “We can’t go anywhere without him, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He knows Sam's right, that what he's saying doesn't make any sense, but admitting so would be a defeat, and he's not interested in that in the slightest. “That doesn't matter; I’m talking to _you_.”

It feels like an eternity before the wardens get everyone up and start herding them all toward the mess for a quick breakfast. Dean schools his face into a blank expression, something that won’t betray his excitement and anxiety all rolled up into one. He’s sure Sam’s doing the same, and Novak’s face barely ever cracks into anything other than that _look_ , so he’s nothing to worry about.

As expected, all three of them do a solid job of keeping their anticipation under wraps, but Dean’s still got to watch himself when they approach the mess line. Vic Henriksen (busted for running a string of speakeasies all across Mississippi, and exactly Dean’s type of party person) and Benny LaFitte (he went down for arson and suspected mafia ties; jury’s still out on that second part, but Dean wouldn’t fuck with him regardless) are manning the food this morning, and in any other situation, Dean’d be bursting to share his plans with two of the men he’s grown closest to during his time at Joliet. 

As it is, he can’t do anything but watch as they pile something too closely resembling horse shit onto a plate and shove it his way.

“Your favorite, Winchester,” Henriksen says with a chuckle. Dean’s eyes flick down at the mess in front of him, then back up at Henriksen before using his middle finger to wipe off a stray bit of food from where they’d splashed up onto his cheek.

“Gee, thanks,” he mutters, grinning at him all the same. “Relief to know I’ve got you lookin’ out for me, Vic.”

LaFitte leans in at that and glances around, like he’s on the lookout for eavesdroppers he’d have to kill—which, given his track record, may not be too far outside the realm of possibility. “Bacon tomorrow, though,” he says quietly before tossing an extra piece of cornbread at Dean. “Keep it on the down-low, huh?”

Dean looks down at the cornbread in his hand, dry and mealy and already crumbling through his fingers.

He looks up at LaFitte once more and plasters on his best attempt at a casual smile. “You got it.”

LaFitte nods once, eyes twinkling as he sneaks more cornbread to Sam and Novak as well. “Hot one out there today,” he says conversationally, and when he looks at Dean again, it’s with knowing eyes that’re a bit too on-the-nose for Dean’s taste. “You three be safe out there.”

Suddenly, Dean’s throat’s gone dry. Benny doesn’t know. He _can’t_ know. It’s just him being a good guy, a good _friend_ , a better friend than Dean deserves. Nothing but pure coincidence, a fucked-up display of Dean’s conscience rearing its ugly head—why do _you_ get to leave when nobody else does?

He coughs, cutting his mind off and trying to pull himself together after a few seconds of holding up the line. “Yeah,” he finally says, careful to keep his focus on Benny while avoiding the gazes of Sam and Novak that he can feel drilling into him. “Yeah, you too. See ya around, boys.”

“You sure you never mentioned anything?” Sam asks as they sit down for a few moments of peace and scant breakfast foods. “Not even in passing? Nothing hypothetical?”

Dean glares at him. “You think I’m an idiot? Relax. He doesn’t know a thing. None of ‘em do.” He’s about to tear into his biscuit when Sam reaches over and snatches the damn thing right out of his hands. “Hey!”

“Why would he have given us this?” Sam asks quietly, shaking it in front of Dean’s face. “You, sure, you two are pals. But all three of us? He’s onto something, Dean. He’s onto us.”

“Swear to Christ, Sam, if you don’t shut your trap and let me eat, I’ll—”

“We would have known.”

Normally, it’d take a lot for Dean to drag his gaze away from his brother when he’s pissed him off, but Novak cutting into the conversation twice in one morning will do it. The whole thing’s apparently got the same effect on Sam, too, who’s looking like a right moron holding the biscuit up in the air like it’s some kinda precious jewel while he looks at Novak.

The man doesn’t look at either of them at first, instead tearing his own biscuit into small, bite-sized pieces. When he does finally look up, he says, “We spend near all day, every day together. If Dean had said something, we would have heard him.”

And damn, just the _sound_ of Dean’s name in Novak’s mouth is sweeter than honey; sweeter still is the realization that he hadn’t said it disparagingly—rather, he’d defended him. And, well, the last thing Dean’d expected from this morning was for Novak to make his debut as a knight in shining armor, but he’ll take it. He chuckles before snatching the biscuit out of Sam’s hand and taking the bite he’d been trying for earlier.

“Yeah, Sam,” he mumbles teasingly through a mouthful of biscuit. “Think it through next time.” He swallows and is about to turn and offer Novak a grateful smile of his own, but the man’s gone back to scrutinizing his meal, effectively calling their conversation—and their moment—finished.

_Yeah_ , Dean thinks, tearing another piece of his biscuit off before popping it into his mouth. _Pleasure talking to you too_.


	2. Chapter 2

Once they’re outta here, Dean’s sworn to himself that he’s never laying another finger on a pickaxe again. Not even a goddamn pinky. His hands are rough and calloused from gripping the thing too tight day in and day out, tiny pinpricks all over his palms from slivers he’s had to wheedle out with his nails when the wardens weren’t looking.

Knowing that this’ll be the last time he has to deal with the godforsaken things—pickaxes and wardens both—has him carrying himself a little lighter as they head out. It’s also what gives Dean enough confidence to smirk up at Alastair Heyerdahl, a smarmy skeleton of a man with sunken eyes and a smile that could curdle milk, as he picks up his equipment for the day. Heyerdahl’s one of the more notorious wardens at Joliet, and on a normal day, it’s all Dean can do to look him in the eye, but the high he’s riding has him feeling daring, and hell, if he can do anything to get the guy off his game to aid in their plan, he’s all over it.

Dean nods amicably as he approaches Heyerdahl, trying hard to swallow down the nausea that starts bubbling up in his chest at the sight of him. “Morning, Heyerdahl,” he says to the man, who’s looming over him from where he’s mounted on his horse. “That a new shirt? Looks new. Doin’ wonders for your eyes.”

He tops the whole thing off with a wink, and instead of handing him his axe, Heyerdahl pulls it back, considering Dean for a second, before moving fast and driving the butt of the thing hard into Dean’s gut in one fluid motion. Dean doubles over with a gasp, immediately chastising himself for that stupid fucking idea as his arms curl protectively around his middle. He ignores the way Sam startles at the violence—makes sense; Dean’d spent most of both their childhoods shielding Sam from seeing and experiencing shit like this as much as possible—and Novak, god love him, takes what Dean has decided is a concerned step closer.

He’s trying to catch his breath, eyes squeezed shut, when he feels cold metal slide under his chin. He doesn’t want to straighten up, not yet, but he doesn't have much of a choice in the matter as Heyerdahl uses the flat of the pickaxe to lift his chin up, forcing their eyes to meet. He swallows hard at the leer on Heyerdahl’s face, wondering for a second if he’s bitten off more than he can chew.

“Winchester, Winchester, Winchester,” he says, raising his sunglasses so they’re perched on top of his head. “If it ain’t my favorite fairy.” He raises the pickaxe higher, forcing Dean to tilt his chin up even more. “Such a smart mouth on you, though...reckon I could think of a few ways to shut it for you.” Dean closes his eyes, but Heyerdahl holds him in place. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Pulling in a breath through his teeth, Dean shakes his head slowly. “No.”

“No?”

“No, _sir_ ,” Dean amends, hating just how easily the correction comes.

Heyerdahl keeps him still for a few more agonizing seconds before pulling the pickaxe away and letting Dean’s head drop with it. He shoves the tool into Dean’s fumbling hands and spits close to Dean’s feet. “Get out there and do your goddamn job before I change my mind. Now.”

Dean can feel Sam’s and Novak’s eyes on him as he rights himself, and he’s relieved when Sam starts walking over to their section of stone that needs splitting without comment. That reprieve is short-lived, though; he knows there’s a lecture coming when he hears Sam sigh. 

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” he mutters, running his fingers through his hair. “Are you all right?”

“Peachy.”

“Good.” Sam reaches across Novak and smacks Dean hard upside the head. 

“ _Christ_ , Sam!”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Dean shoots him a halfhearted smile, still rubbing the back of his head. “All part of the plan,” he says. “Guarantee Heyerdahl will be pissed off well into the afternoon after that mess. More flustered he is, easier it’ll be for us.”

Sam cocks a brow but doesn’t protest further, so Dean considers it a win. He chuckles and slings an arm around Novak’s shoulders before waggling his fingers for Sam to come closer too. His little brother rolls his eyes, but Dean doesn’t miss his poorly concealed grin as he steps toward them, either.

“Saw that, bitch,” he says, stretching further to rest his hand and forearm along Sam’s broad shoulders. He pulls them both closer, making it so Novak’s pressed right up against him, a hell of a bonus if Dean’s ever heard of one.

“The three musketeers,” he says quietly, tapping the pickaxe in his free hand against his boots to knock loose a few clumps of dirt as he drops his arm and the three of them drift apart again. 

“All for one...” 

Dean looks up sharply, having expected Sammy’s voice and being met with Novak’s low growl instead. He’s just in time to see Novak looking at him before darting his eyes back down to the ground. Dean can feel himself start grinning and before he can think better of it, leans over and nudges Novak with his elbow until the guy’ll look at him again. When he does, Dean lets his smile widen. “One for all.”

After a few false starts, Dean’s finally found some sort of a rhythm in his work. He tries to focus on the song being sung lowly around them instead of the burn of his shoulders, the ache in his legs, the blisters that’re undoubtedly forming on his palms and fingers as they all sweat under the burning sun.

Sweat drips down into his eyes as he works, and he takes a second to straighten up and wipe his forehead with the sleeve of his jumpsuit. They aren’t much, ratty old things undoubtedly passed down from prisoner to prisoner, the stripes that must’ve once been a stark black faded to a barely-there gray after years in the sun. 

When they’re through here, Dean thinks he’ll probably burn his.

Novak’s, he noticed long ago, does him the honor of actually _fitting_ him, and Dean’s torn between feeling appreciative of the view and jealous that his own jumpsuit’s got the shape of a few old potato sacks stitched together. As if he knows Dean’s watching, Novak’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and Dean shakes his head sharply.

Focus, _focus_.

He’s about to get back to it when a crane of his neck has him realizing that he can keep working while still getting a peek at Cas as _he_ works. It’s an awkward angle and it hurts, but the stiff neck he’ll undoubtedly have in the morning’s gonna be worth it for a chance to watch Novak, all muscle and sweat and arms that’ll have Dean going weak in the knees if he’s not careful.

He’s letting himself get lulled into the monotony of what he’s been doing day in and day out for the past year and a half when he hears Sam groan. His eyes dart up just in time to see his little brother arching back, hands pressing at the base of his spine as he tries to stretch and pop his back. He glances over his shoulder at Dean as he does it—that’s their sign; this is it.

Dean’s fingers tighten around his axe and he nods once to give Sam the go-ahead. He watches Sam’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath before taking a few steps over to the group next to them and tapping Arthur Ketch on the shoulder.

Novak may very well have had the bulk of Dean’s attention since he’d arrived, but that doesn’t mean Dean hadn’t picked up on the quirks and eccentricities of the other men around him as well, which is exactly how he settled on Ketch to be the one to help them out of this hellhole. He’s perfect: someone with a short temper, who wouldn’t waste time on stupid things like logistics or believability after hearing that someone had supposedly dragged his name through the mud...which is exactly what Sam’s going to tell him happened.

Asmodeus Parise, the target of Ketch’s eventual ire, is also Dean’s handiwork. A wiry little fella who can’t keep his trap shut to save his life (and who, if Dean’s being completely honest, has probably spewed shit about _all_ of them at some point or another, so ask him if he feels bad about throwing him under the bus), he’s the perfect choice to act as a human punching bag, and Dean gives himself a mental pat on the back for his damn-near impeccable casting.

He can tell the second Sam’s spilled the beans—Ketch stops mid-swing, his spine going straight as a post—and Dean grins with a quick shake of his head. He looks down at the chipped hunk of concrete at his feet and raises his pickaxe, an added surge of strength flowing through him as he poises himself for another strike, knowing damn well it’ll be near his last. He hauls it high up overhead and aims, one last time.

The second his axe smashes into rock, he hears the uproar start.

Sam’s backing away from the scene looking wide-eyed and panicked. If he hadn’t already had a plan to resume his law practice once things had settled down, Dean’s certain he’d have himself a future in the pictures with how good of a show he’s putting on right now.

Keeping a close eye on the scene unfolding in front of them, Dean starts edging back toward the cornfields as Sam comes closer, herding Novak right along with him. Ketch has got Asmodeus by the collar and lands another solid punch that has Dean cringing in spite of himself as the two prisoners topple to the ground, dragging their mates awkwardly along in a tangle of limbs and chains.

Heyerdahl’s yelling from his horse, trying and failing to be heard over the commotion, and Dean smirks. Seeing the warden overwhelmed and pissed off is so good a feeling that Dean doesn’t even care when Novak stumbles into him, followed real close by Sam.

“Go,” Sam hisses, shoving them both further toward the cornfield. “Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up.”

Dean scoops up the chain between himself and Novak and hustles until they get to the edge of the cornfield. He’d keep going, just make a break for it, but Sam’s voice cuts through the yelling and fighting from behind them with another instruction.

“Down.”

And without a second thought, Dean drops. He, Sam, and Novak are in perfect sync right away, falling to their knees then their stomachs like they’re part of some jailbird dance recital. Dean’s chest heaves against the ground, dirt coming up in little puffs around his mouth as he tries to catch his breath. He closes his eyes and listens hard for Sam’s next directive.

A few seconds of tense silence, then, “Go, go, go.”

Dean hauls himself to his feet and they stumble further through the field. He wants to look back—more than anything, he wants to look back and see that hellhole disappearing in his rearview—but he and Sam had agreed: only one of them needed to focus on that to make sure no one was following them; anyone else doing so would just slow them down. 

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he mutters when Sam tells them to drop again after another hundred yards, only to get them back on their feet not thirty seconds later. He feels like he’s trudging through mud, and his ankles are raw underneath the chains: as much as he thought he was used to them, what he apparently hasn’t gotten the hang of yet is running in them.

The whole thing goes on for what seems like miles—go, then drop; go, then drop; go, then drop—until finally, Dean sees his brother stop and turn his entire body around to face back where they’d come. He’s silent for a few seconds, still as a board before throwing his arms up in the air. “Guess what, boys,” he says, smiling wide at them over his shoulder. He doesn’t wait for either of them to answer before continuing, “We’re clear!”

Dean never thought two simple words could make him so goddamn excited, but he’s yelling and whooping and cheering before he can think twice, heart pounding double-time in his chest. Sam laughs and bends down to scoop up an armful of loose stalks and leaves, which he proceeds to toss up into the air like confetti. Hell, Dean even catches Novak cracking a smile, which in his case, is practically jumping for joy.

And before he even realizes it’s happening, Dean finds himself pulling Novak into a one-armed hug. It’s not much, but it’s more than he—and, judging by the way he’d gone still under Dean’s hands, Novak too—had been expecting.

Dean chuckles and pats him awkwardly on the back before stepping away. “Good going,” he says to the both of them, running a hand through his hair and letting himself take a deep, relieved breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“What now?” Novak asks.

“Good question.” Sam takes a moment or two to take in what’s around them, which, to Dean, seems like nothing but corn, corn, and, oh look, more corn. He’s about to open his mouth to tell him just that when a shrill, piercing whistle cuts through the air.

Dean’s head jerks around immediately at the sound, and hope blossoms in his chest as their tin-can savior starts barreling in their direction.

A train.

Novak and Sam have got their eyes on it too, and Dean can’t stop the proud grin that’s forming as he practically sees his little brother making calculations in his head. The tracks look to be about a half-mile away, and the train’s still got some ground to cover before it passes them by. If they run, they could make it. If it’s a cargo train, they could hop a ride and coast all the way to the city.

If they do it all, they could be out of here.

Without waiting for a decision to be made, Dean hauls up what he can of their chains and looks expectantly at the two of them. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

Novak picks up more chains next, and Sam follows their lead, shaking out his shoulders as the three of them zero in on the train. “Fast as we can, boys.”

The stitch in Dean’s side is getting worse by the second, but he can’t stop. Not now, not when they’re so close; he _refuses_ to be the reason why they don’t make it out of here. He sucks in a deep breath through his mouth, but no matter how much oxygen he gets, it’s not enough, especially not with the smoke from the train’s engine bearing down on them too.

They’re close now; the corn’s almost down to nothing, replaced by a slight pebbled incline leading up to the train tracks. Their feet start kicking up rocks as they shift to run along the tracks, but a particularly big one wedges itself underneath Dean’s boot, and he stumbles.

“ _Shit_ ,” he mutters, struggling to right himself as Sam picks up the pace at the sight of a cargo car with its door open. Novak glances back over his shoulder at him and Dean glares. “Keep going!” he yells, waving with his hands full of chains. 

It’s awkward, running along the side of an incline with a return to prison under you and your ticket to freedom above you, but somehow, Sam manages one more burst of speed and hauls himself up and into the car.

“Atta boy, Sammy!” Dean yells as his brother disappears into the train. That sight—his little brother one step closer to freedom—is enough to push him harder, and he’s got to; Novak’s hauling ass and, after another minute, has followed Sam inside.

“Come on,” he mutters to himself, keeping his eyes locked on the open door just a few feet in front of him. They’re so close, they can do this, _he_ can do this. It feels like it’ll never end, but then Dean manages to catch a glimpse of the inside of the car—of Novak trying to get his bearings, of Sam on his feet, back to the door, talking to a couple of grifters who’ve apparently already staked out a claim on this particular car—and uses that to push himself even faster.

His lungs are on fire, his legs are screaming at him, but he’s gotta keep going. He’s close enough to make a jump for it now, and he braces himself. Chest heaving, fingers wrapping tighter around the chains, he’s about to push himself off the ground and into the car when something catches underneath him.

Instead of landing on the solid floor of the train car, Dean feels rocks scraping his face and hands as he trips and collapses face-first. Too stunned to do anything else, he lets himself get dragged along for a few seconds until Novak’s yanked back out of the car, and Sam too, all because of him.

They crash into each other, the momentum they’d built up throwing them along for a few more feet until they come to a stop in a mess of tangled limbs and chains. Dean’s thrown onto his back, and he turns his head to watch wearily as the train continues on without them.

All because of him. 

He can hear Sam and Novak getting to their feet around him, but all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut. He can’t look at the train, can’t look at _them_ , knowing he’s the reason they’re not on their way to Lawrence right this very second.

When that train’d shown up, he hadn’t been able to believe their luck; in retrospect, he shouldn’t have.

He should’ve known.

Dean lays there, finally opening his eyes to stare up at the sky as his daze slowly morphs into frustration. He curls his hands into fists, slamming them down hard enough that circles of dirt puff up through the pebbles and into the air on impact.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters through gritted teeth before smacking the earth again, even harder this time. “Son of a _bitch_!”

“Relax, Dean,” Sam murmurs, looking off into the distance in that infuriatingly calm way of his as he tries to get a handle on the situation.

“Re _lax_? That train was our goddamn out!” _And it’s_ my _goddamn fault we’re not on it._ Dean digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, ignoring the dirt that stings as he does so. He uses those same hands to wipe the dirt away with a frustrated groan, then closes his eyes as his fingers sift absently through the pebbles, listening to Sam’s mutterings and the way Novak stays silent through the whole goddamn thing.

 _Deep breaths, Winchester._ He listens to himself, trying hard to ignore the way his inner voice is turning into one that sounds more like his old man than he’s comfortable with, but there’s no stopping it now. _Pull it together. Nobody’s gaining anything from you losing your mind in the dirt like a baby pig._

After a few minutes, he finally feels like he can drop his hands, open his eyes, and _handle_ the damn thing, so he does—only to jerk back at the sight of a pair of blue eyes peering down at him.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, scuttling back away from Novak, who’s crouched down beside him, staring like he’s never seen a full-grown man having a breakdown before. Dean tries to slow his breathing as Novak continues to stare, then snaps, “Can I help you?”

Without a word, Novak gets to his feet and extends his hand. Nervous, like he’s about to try and grab for a snake, Dean takes it, and damn if Novak isn’t strong. He hauls Dean to his feet in one fell swoop, and Dean can still feel the guy’s gaze on him as he dusts himself off.

“Ever heard of a thing called personal space?” Dean says, trying hard to pull himself together.

Apparently he hasn’t, because Novak doesn’t back off; he just keeps standing there, eyeing him all the while.

“You need to be easier on yourself,” he finally says.

Dean stares at him. “Beg pardon?”

“The train wasn’t our only way out.”

“The hell are you talkin’ about, that train was—”

“A convenience.” The way he says it makes it clear there’s no use arguing with him. “I doubt any of us ended up here by taking advantage of conveniences, don’t you think?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Oh, it’s not?”

“No!”

“Enlighten me, then. What is?”

Dean opens his mouth, wants to say _something_ , but then decides something along the lines of _The_ point _is I’ve been a failure and a fuckup all my life up til now and I ain’t showing no signs of slowing down soon, and now you’re stuck with me too, so strap in_ may be revealing too much too soon, so he shuts it again and just glares.

“What’re we doing, Sam?” he calls out instead. 

When Sam doesn’t answer, Dean’s back to being stuck with nothing but Novak’s clipped tone and brooding blue eyes. He tries again. “We could’ve been well on our way to Topeka if—”

“That train was an option,” Novak interrupts, calm as anything, “but obviously not the solution. If it was, we’d be on it.”

“Yeah, mind sharin’ what exactly the solution is, then?”

Novak shrugs. “If I knew, yes. We’ll find it, though.” With that, he pulls something out of his back pocket—a bandana, Dean realizes—and takes a few steps forward toward Dean, who takes just as many back.

“Uh, what the hell are you doing?”

“Stay still.”

“Like hell I’ll—” But he’s stunned into silence when Novak reaches out and drags the rough cloth along a small spot on Dean’s cheekbone. Dean’s breath catches low in his chest at Novak’s touch, and he doesn’t move a muscle save for his gaze darting from Novak’s eyes to the bandana and back. 

“Had something there,” Novak says after a moment, tapping his own cheekbone with an expression on his face Dean’d guess is a smile. Or at least the closest thing he’s ever gonna get to one outta Novak. 

For once in his life, Dean’s got nothing to say. His hand reaches up to his face, two fingers ghosting over the spot Novak had just wiped clean. He stares, not really sure what the hell else to do.

“Hey!”

Dean’s eyes dart toward his brother’s voice, watching as he points toward a woman navigating a railroad handcar toward them. Sam looks over his shoulder and gestures for them to get ready to hop on.

“See?” Novak asks. “Another way.”

Dean can hear Sam, sure, but he can’t move. He doesn’t know what to say, either, but every second he stays silent has him feeling like he’s losing it—losing _what_ , he’s got no idea—and he finally just shakes his head and mutters, “Liked you better when you didn’t talk.”

The creaking of the handlebar in the middle of the car gets louder as she approaches, and Dean watches the way she pumps the thing up and down in long, fluid motions. Her frame is slight, but she’s strong, and the car moves smoothly along the tracks. She’s practically right on top of them now, but still hasn’t reacted to them in any way, not even when Sam had started waving her down like a madman.

“Uh, ma’am?” Sam finally calls out. “Ma’am, if you’d be so kind, I’m wondering if you might have room for me and my two friends here to hitch a ride? Not far, only a few miles.”

The woman looks up at his voice and flashes them a bright smile, but when she tosses her long, dark hair back out of her face, Dean stops short at the sight of her eyes. They’re a milky white, the color of her irises faded practically beyond recognition. 

“Now, what makes you think I pander to criminals on the run?”

Dean’s eyes lock on Sam’s in a silent question. If the woman’s blind, how the hell can she—

“The noise those chains of yours are making is none too subtle, boys,” she says with a chuckle. She and her handcar are almost past them, and Dean’s got half a mind to hop on without her permission when she adds, “Lucky for you, I like a little adventure. Hop on.”

Having four grown adults on the small, flat car makes for tight quarters, but they manage, with Sam situated at the front with Novak and Dean on the side. Not comfortable by any means, but the chance to get off his feet for a bit is more than welcome, and he runs a hand through his hair as he lets them dangle just above the rusted tracks. Breathing out a long, contented sigh, he leans back to brace himself on the wooden car, but jumps back like he’s been scalded when he feels his hand land not on the wood, but on Novak’s. 

Novak doesn’t shift his position at the contact, but he does look at Dean with a quirked brow that has Dean’s cheeks going a flush red that he hopes to god he can blame on the sun. Dean opens his mouth to say something—snarky, apologetic, embarrassed, he’s not sure—but before he can, Novak shifts his hand to make room for Dean’s, then turns his attention back to the cornfields around them.

Dean waits for a few seconds before resting his hand on the vacant spot Novak left for him without comment.

“So,” the woman says, “you boys after some kinda treasure, I see.”

Dean’s gut twists in surprise as Sam whips around to look at her, wide-eyed. His gaze then darts over to Dean, who shakes his head and mouths, _Lucky guess?_

“I...we don’t—”

She chuckles again and taps her temple. “No use denying it, Junior. It’s all up here. Call it a gift, call it sorcery, call it whatever the hell you want. Lord knows everyone else does, but it’s never steered me wrong before.”

They ride on in silence for a few moments after that until the woman continues. “Quite an adventure you three are heading off on, I’ll give you that. But that treasure you’re looking for? That great fortune? One of you’s already found it. Just might be a _little_ different from what you were picturing.”

Dean’s got no way of explaining why, but at that, his eyes find their way back over to Novak, and he decides, like most things, that it’s better if he just ignores it.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam doesn't believe a word of it, but Dean wouldn’t say he _hates_ Novak—no, sir. He doesn’t hate him, he’s more... _intrigued_ by him, if he had to settle for something. 

Yeah, intrigued. Intrigued by the stiffness in how he walks, talks, _exists_ ; by the way he’s managed to keep every damn thing to himself from the moment they’d met; by the way he’s snuck on into Dean’s mind and made himself at home like a little blue-eyed mouse Dean _should_ find annoying, but only, for whatever goddamn reason, wants to make more comfortable.

Intrigued, infatuated, and, if Dean’s being completely, 100 percent honest—a little bit terrified.

He ain’t leaving anytime soon, and as the three of them trudge along a dirt path after hopping off the handcar, Dean isn’t sure he’s particularly _upset_ about that. That feeling, whatever it is, mixes with a relief Dean finally starts to let himself feel now that they’ve put miles between them and Joliet. They did it; they really fucking did it.

That relief evaporates quick when he looks down at his clothes and chains, not just reminders of where they’d come from, but red flags to anyone passing by that they’re not exactly the innocents Sam’s puppy dog eyes would have them think.

“God _damn_ it,” he mutters to himself. Sam and Novak are still trudging along, not a care in the world, and Dean growls low in his throat as he tries to multitask, stumbling as he bends down to scoop up some of the chain between him and Novak to pull them to a stop. “Hey!”

“ _What_ , Dean?” Sam says, exasperated. “Christ, you’re worse than a toddler.”

Dean glares at him. “Yeah? Your fully-formed brain got any ideas on how to deal with this shit, then?” he asks, gesturing down at himself and shaking the chain again. 

Sam purses his lips, but Dean feels a tiny spark of victory alight when his brother’s got no response other than a stammered little, “I…”

“Thought so.”

“Yeah, and what do _you_ propose we do about it, smartass?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t just keep walkin’ aimlessly ‘til we stumble on some sweet old woman who won’t be too sweet once she realizes we’re escaped convicts, can we?”

“I swear to God, Dean—”

Out of nowhere, an ear-piercing whistle sounds from between them, and both Sam and Dean turn to stare at Cas. He’s still got two fingers to his mouth in prime whistling position, and once he’s sure he’s got their attention, he lowers his hand. “I’ve got kin nearby.”

After a beat, Dean grins. “Well, ain’t you just full of surprises.”

Novak glares at him. “If you don’t want his help, that’s fine, but—”

Sam throws himself between the two of them at that, holding his hands out placatingly. “I think what Dean was trying to say—” he throws a look over his shoulder at Dean, a look that says _you better well_ know _this is what you were trying to say_ , “—is how do you know?” He chuckles, spreads his arms wide. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Haven’t seen a marker for miles.”

“I spent much of my childhood traveling back and forth from the Milton farm,” he says, as if that’s supposed to mean a damn thing to either of them. “Over the years, I got better at noticing what made the path there...unique. I can recognize it, and we’re on it.”

“Your mystery kin got tools to get us outta these?” Dean asks, sticking his leg out and giving it a shake. 

Novak’s mouth quirks up in another one of those infuriating half-smiles, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t.”

Dean grins, more than ready to take the challenge for what it is. “Is that right?” Mirroring Novak’s stance, Dean stays still for another moment before taking a step back and stretching his arm out wide toward the road in front of them. “Well, then lead the way, handsome.”

Three hours later on the same stretch of road, they don’t seem to be any closer to Novak’s mystery kin, and Dean’s getting bored.

And when Dean gets bored, he gets curious.

After none of his past attempts at conversation prove fruitful (“You got any siblings?” “No.” “From around here?” “No.” “Say anything other than ‘no’?” “...No.”), Dean decides to change tactics. It ain’t even a way to pass time anymore; it’s a personal challenge at this point, to get something, _anything_ , out of Novak, and no way Dean’s giving it up without a fight.

“So, Novak,” Dean starts. He takes care to keep his tone casual as he slashes his way past overreaching branches lining the road with a thin branch he’d found about a half-mile back. “You ever gonna tell us?”

“Tell you what?” Novak asks, and hell, Dean hadn’t been expecting anything more’n a glare, so he almost forgets to answer.

“What you were in for.”

Sam’s in front of them now, but that doesn’t stop Dean from still being able to practically see the eyeroll. “He’s got no obligation to tell us anything he don’t want to, Dean.”

Dean ignores him, hustling up a bit to catch up to Novak and nudge him with his shoulder. “Sam here got caught practicing law without a license.”

“Only to help defend those who needed it!” Sam yelps. “These folks had no other means to help themselves. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let the county walk all over ‘em.”

“Sure, sure.” Dean loves to give Sam shit, but he knows what he’s saying is true. Sam’d go to bat for anyone down on their luck without a second’s hesitation, anyone who needed help and would’ve had no other way to get it than through the generosity of others.

His brother’s good people. Always has been, always will be. Dean’s proud of him.

Novak doesn’t react to either of them, but Dean’s nothing if not persistent. “I stole. Too much, too soon.” He grins and waggles his fingers right up in Novak’s face. “Sticky fingers and all that.”

Novak stops in his tracks, making Dean almost stumble over his own two feet. “I thought you robbed a bank.”

He grins. “So you _were_ listening.”

Novak looks at him flatly, then continues walking. Dean stays put for a few seconds, trying to figure out his next move. Finally, it hits him, and he snaps his fingers.

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey,” Dean says quickly. He scrambles ahead and hops in front of Novak, forcing him to a halt. “You’re not gonna tell us, that’s fine. How ‘bout this, though? How ‘bout a name? A _first_ name.”

“Dean…” Sam starts, but Dean waves him off. Sam can try to act like he ain’t curious as much as he wants, but Dean didn’t miss the way those massive ears of his perked up at the question. 

“So?” Dean says expectantly. “What am I callin’ you from here on out? ‘Cause I’ll tell ya, ‘Novak’ ain’t gonna cut it anymore.” 

Novak shakes his head. “You’ve got everything you need to know.”

“We’re supposed to be goin’ to _your_ kin’s house, and have them believe we’re true-blue friends who don’t even know your first name?”

“Plenty of people survive just fine on nicknames and surnames.”

Dean throws his hands up in exasperation, half because of Novak’s stubbornness, and half because of the fact that he just used a word like _surname_ in casual conversation. “Come on, we’re supposed to be adventurers! Brothers in arms! The Three Muske _teers_ , for Christ’s sake! We’ll know everything about each other by the time this is over, so why can’t we s—”

“Castiel.”

It’s so quick, so quiet, Dean almost misses it. “What’s that, now?”

“My name is Castiel.”

Dean waits a beat, trying to process that. “Jesus,” he finally mutters. “Makes sense you’d shy away from sharin’ _that_.”

“Dean!” Sam hisses, digging his elbow into Dean’s side.

“ _What_?”

“You ever think before you speak? Ever?”

Dean ignores Sam, pressing on and preventing Novak— _Castiel_ Novak—from moving past him. “How’d you get saddled with a name like that?” he asks.

“Sounds angelic,” Sam says, and Dean knows his little brother, knows he said it more out of an effort to smooth things over than actual curiosity.

Dean looks at him expectantly, arms crossed over his chest. “You some kinda religious kook?”

The look Castiel hits him with is pure ice. “I’d appreciate you not talking about my mother that way.”

Dean takes the non-answer for what it is and grins, elbowing his little brother. “You hear that, Sam? We got ourselves an angel watching over us.”

Novak just glares, and if Dean were just a little bit more childish, he’d stick out his tongue.

As it is, he waits for Novak to turn his back toward him before doing so anyway.

Dean isn’t ashamed to admit that when Castiel had told ‘em his cousin’s place was “just over this hill,” he’d been picturing some kind of paradise, a promised land of sorts. Sure, that probably had more to do with being dehydrated and hungry enough to eat a horse than any actual evidence, but he’s still disappointed as it starts getting clearer and clearer that Castiel’s cousin’s place is bleaker than the jail they just escaped from.

It’s a lopsided little shack with a layer of dust so thick Dean’s nose twitches, so ramshackle that he can’t quite figure out how the damn thing is still upright. Windows are boarded up, door’s crooked, pig shit all over the place with no sign of a damn pig—and that’s just what Dean can see at first glance. 

Promised land, his ass.

“This is it?” he asks. He’s trying hard to sound casual, not too disappointed, but from the glare Sam shoots his way, it’s pretty clear he’s fucked that up too. 

“Don’t go lookin’ a gift horse in the mouth, _Dean_ ,” Sam says, tone sharp, and Dean flips him off when Castiel’s got his back turned.

“Hey, I got no problem with a little dust,” Dean says. “Just makin’ sure this is the right place, is all.” He glances at Castiel, who’s made his way to the front of their group. “So? Whaddaya say?”

Castiel looks back over his shoulder at them, his expression blank as a board. “It’s the correct address,” he says. “I don’t understand why it seems to be aban—”

Out of nowhere, the ground at their feet explodes in a smattering of gunfire. “Son of a bitch!” Dean yells, his hands flying overhead. He squints into the harsh sunlight to see Novak looking straight ahead at a man aiming a shotgun at the three of them.

“Novak,” he hisses, “who the hell is tha—ah, _shit_!” He’d been an idiot, taking a step forward to talk to Cas, and the schmuck on the sorry excuse for a porch rewards him with another round of warning shots that bursts around them.

“You lads from the bank?” the man asks, not sounding all that interested in the answer.

“Sure ain’t, sir!” Sam calls. Dean knows his little brother can see the glare he’s shooting his way, but chooses to ignore it.

“It’s me, Gabriel,” Castiel adds, hands raised, epitome of cool, calm, and collected. “Castiel.”

“Cas!” he hisses again, eyes darting between Cas and the hothead with the shotgun, who’s decided now’s as good a time as any to start moving towards them. “You know him?”

“Cassie?”

Dean can hear the man’s boots crunching the dirt and gravel as he gets closer. He licks his lips, his breath coming quick, but he doesn’t dare take his eyes off this looney-toon, no way, not now. He can’t watch Cas get shot, won’t let him—

And the last thing Dean had expected was for the two of them to go from goddamn _standoff_ to goddamn _embrace_ , but there it is, Castiel and the man—Gabriel, apparently—hugging like they hadn’t seen each other in decades.

Which, hell, maybe they hadn’t. 

“Christ, I thought you were dead,” Gabriel says, taking a step back and resting his hand on Cas’ shoulder.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the excuse Chuck gave,” Castiel says. “But I’m very much alive, and I need your help. We all do.”

Gabriel leans to the side and looks at Sam and Dean like he’s noticing them for the first time. He doesn’t say anything, just looks ‘em up and down. With a lack of anything better to do, Dean waves once, his head tilting along with it. Gabriel huffs out a laugh and nods.

“I see.” He gestures with the gun in his hands toward the irons around their ankles. “Suppose you boys want those chains knocked off.”

It shouldn’t surprise Dean that someone who had no problem barely speaking for eight months is from a weird family, but just a few minutes in Gabriel’s presence has him wondering just what life would’ve been like as a full-time, bona fide Novak.

Once he’s gotten their chains off, Gabriel leads them through his place, which seems like more of a funhouse than any kind of home. The lighting’s shit, but from what Dean can see, the rooms are full of stacks upon stacks of newspapers and old, mismatched furniture that probably haven’t been moved (or cleaned) in decades. The whole place smells of mothballs and mold, and Dean has to stop himself from covering his mouth and nose with his shirt as they’re given the grand tour.

“And here we’ve got the sitting room,” Gabriel says. He reaches for an oil lantern that’s balanced on a stack of newspapers and Dean’s gotta fight the urge to cringe when he lights it and sets it back down, practically setting himself up for the whole stack to go up in flames. If he’d thought that was bad, though, it’s nothing compared to what Dean comes eye-to-eye with once the room is flooded with light.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, jerking back. 

The wall in front of him is covered— _covered_ —with rows upon rows of ventriloquist dummies. Perched carefully on narrow wooden shelves, their eyes seem to follow Dean as his own dart around to take them all in. Dusty clothes and wide, dead eyes and limp legs hanging over the edges of shelves...the whole thing gives Dean the creeps.

“Aren’t they great?” Gabriel’s at his side in an instant, drawn to his discomfort like a moth to a flame. Dean clenches his fists at his sides to stop himself from flinching away as Gabriel flings an arm across his shoulders and pulls him close, gesturing to the wall in front of them. “Spent years working to get my collection to this point. My pride and joy,” he says, and damn if he doesn’t sound like a proud parent.

Somehow, Dean doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that the best lighting in the entire house is in this goddamn room.

“Like ‘em?” Gabriel asks, smacking Dean hard enough on the shoulder for him to take a stumbling step forward.

Dean chuckles uneasily, not wanting to upset their host and accidentally end up on this wall himself. “They, uh…” He trails off uncertainly before finally finishing with, “Sure are something.”

Gabriel throws his head back and laughs once, a loud, piercing sound that reminds Dean of a carnival barker. “You like this, friend, just wait til you see the ones I've got in the commode.”

As it turns out, Castiel and his cousin hadn’t seen each other for going on three years, something about Castiel’s father making up some hogwash about him having thrown himself off a bridge or in front of a train, which, Jesus. Dean’s old man had done some shit, but nothing as drastic as _that_.

Even though it’s not exactly the happiest news, Dean’s taken to scooping up facts about Castiel like they’re treasure, trying to piece together more about this walking enigma as he goes. Strong but silent type, distant family, a whole heap of daddy issues...it’s not much yet, but it’s a start.

Gabriel’s made them supper and drags over an extra chair from the sitting room so they all have a place around his rickety table. Dean’s got no idea what the hell they’re eating; all he knows is that it’s better than what they were given in jail, and he eats it gratefully, scraping his fork across the plate to grab every last morsel.

“And how’d you two get saddled with this wild card?” Gabriel asks, taking a long drink of room-temperature water as he gestures between Sam and Dean with his fork. 

“Luck of the draw,” Sam says through a mouthful of whatever meat’s currently on the table in front of them. “It had just been my brother’n me for a while, then seven or so months ago—”

 _Eight months and four days, now,_ Dean’s brain supplies, and he tries to hide the way his cheeks go pink by shoveling more food into his mouth, praying to whoever’s listening that nobody noticed.

“—Castiel joined our ranks.”

“I see. Well, you fools’ve got your hands full with Cassie, here, I’ll say that much.”

Dean looks up at that, taking in the glare Novak shoots his cousin’s way. “Yeah?” he asks, swallowing his mouthful of food. “Why’s that?”

Gabriel snorts. “Has your daddy ever told folks _you_ threw _your_ self in front of a train?”

Castiel slams his fork down onto the table, eyes clouded over with anger. “That’s _enough_ , Gabriel,” he says, but Dean barely even hears it, too distracted by the thought that maybe, just maybe, the only reason John _hadn’t_ made up something like that about his eldest son was because the opportunity hadn’t presented itself yet.

_John’s yelling. That’s all Dean can really register at first, the yelling and pounding walls, his dad wishing not so subtly that he was smashing Dean’s face against the wood instead of his own fist. Dean’s staring at him, eyes wide, the collar of his shirt pressed up against a cut on his lip from the backhand John had thrown the second he stormed in._

_“You say you come back here to work, to help support this family, then I find you holed up in_ bed _with him?_ That’s _why you’ve been over his farm all this time, ain’t it? You weren’t working,” he says, the disgust clear—in his posture, in his voice, in his eyes._

_“Dad, I don’t—”_

_“I should’ve known.” John’s nostrils flare as he glares at Dean, looking at him like shit on his shoe. “There’s always been something off about you.” He shakes his head. “Should’ve known the second you picked up your mother’s frying pan.”_

_Dean’s blood goes cold at that. “I didn’t have a_ choice _,” he says, hands dropping to his sides and clenching into fists. “Wasn’t like anyone else was making sure we got fed and taken care of.”_

_John points a warning finger at him. “You shut your mouth, boy. You know your place; best be keeping it.” Dean doesn’t respond, and John shakes his head. “Disgracing our family name.”_

_Dean’s eyes narrow, and the words are out before he can stop them. “Only following in your footsteps.” His voice is quiet, it’s still just loud enough for John to hear._

_And hear it he does._

_Before Dean can blink, John’s got a fistful of his shirt and Dean lets out a gasp as his back collides with the wall. He struggles for a few seconds, but John’s grip on his shirt goes tighter, and he swallows, trying to keep his breathing steady as he stares into his eyes._

_Dean’s seen anger there before, seen it every day of his goddamn life since he was a kid, but this isn’t that. This is something more, something worse._

_“No son of mine is a goddamn_ queer _.” John’s voice is dangerously low as he spits out the last word, and Dean closes his eyes for a second before John tugs him forward by the collar and slams him back, the back of his head smacking against the wall hard enough to have him seeing stars._

_“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy.”_

_“I ain’t your boy,” Dean says through gritted teeth._

_John stares at him incredulously, then laughs, the tang of smoke and alcohol thick on his breath. “That’s where you’re right. No way in hell you’re any son of mine.” He pauses, head tilting to the side like he’s preparing for some kind of kill shot, and sneers. “Your ma’s rollin’ in her grave right now, you know. Downright ashamed of you. Pathetic.”_

_Dean stops short at that, heart pounding. “Take that back.”_

_John laughs, tightening his grip on Dean’s shirt. “Her son, shackin’ up with another man. Exactly what she’d dreamed of. A goddamn abomination, right in her own home. Soiling the family name just by_ existing _. You disgusting piece of shit,” John breathes, leaning in closer with every word, forcing Dean to turn away._

_It’s more instinct than anything, the way Dean lashes out and shoves his father away from him, hard. John’s a few feet away now, looking just as stunned as Dean feels, but he doesn’t let that distract him._

_“Fuck you,” he snarls, making a beeline for the door._

_“Where the hell you going, boy?” John thunders, storming toward Dean and slamming the door shut with an open palm before Dean can get even a foot through it. Dean drops his head, shoulders heaving as he tries to pull himself together._

_He’s taking too long for John, though, who grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around to face him. “You answer me when I’m talking to y_ —”

_“‘m going to provide for this goddamn family,” Dean snarls. “Somebody’s got to, and it sure as hell ain’t you.”_

_Dean leaves the door open behind him, the mental picture of his dad staring at him, mouth hanging open, burned into his head for good. He can still hear him yelling after him as he leaves the house and heads for the general store._

Dean’s jerked back to the dinner table when someone snaps their fingers in front of him, and he looks up to see Gabriel leaning forward, one hand splayed on the table to steady himself and the other just an inch or two from Dean’s nose, ready to snap again. He groans and bats the thing away with a glare.

“Jesus, what is it with you Novaks and personal space?” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. When he drops his hand, he catches Cas looking at him again, something oddly resembling concern on his face. Dean’s about to comment on it, but before he can, Gabriel interrupts.

“Only one Novak at this table,” he says proudly, easing back down into his seat. “You’re lookin’ at a bona fide Milton right here. But let’s not change the subject. How ‘bout it, Dean-o? You were gone for a while there. Your pa go the train route too?”

“No,” Dean says faintly. “Not exactly.” He feels a nudge against his leg, a silent check-in from Sam— _you okay?_ He grabs his water cup and takes a long drink, nodding just a bit as he does so to give his brother an answer, even though he sure as shit isn’t.

Castiel clears his throat, and goddamn if his eyes aren’t back on Dean again. “Sam and Dean had been hoping you could help us get out of those shackles, not to be subjected to my life story, Gabriel,” he says.

Gabriel sighs, resting his chin in his hand before plunking his elbow down onto the table with a thud. “Such a wet blanket, Castiel. Ever since we were kids, this fella,” he says to Sam and Dean with a scoff, gesturing with the thumb of his other hand toward his cousin. When no one comes to Gabriel’s defense, he turns up the dramatics even higher, shoving his chair back and scooping up his own plate. “Fine, fine. Ain’t no sense in you fools gallivanting out there before morning, though. Help me with dishes and I’ll get you set up for the night.”

Gabriel’s setup turns out to be the loft in his barn, which (and Dean doesn’t have the faintest idea how this is even _possible_ ) is somehow in even worse shape than the house. It’s a place to lay their heads though, and Dean’s learned his lesson about looking a gift horse in the mouth.

He’s just begun getting used to the pricks of hay in his back as he starts drifting off when Sam’s voice cuts through the creaks and shifts of the night.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You all right? I saw you during dinner.”

“Peachy,” Dean mumbles, rolling onto his side, away from Sam. “Leave me alone.”

“Dean, what Dad said that day, it isn’t—”

“Drop it, Sam,” Dean interrupts. “All’s I want is a good night’s sleep, that’s it. No interrogations. No sentimental talk. Not tonight.”

He’s snapped at his little brother enough times to know when he’s upset by Dean’s response, but he’s telling the truth: the last thing he wants is a deep-dive into his past—especially not with Cas within earshot. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

He hears Sam sigh next to him, and knows that’s the best answer he’s going to get, at least for tonight. He takes it as an invitation to roll onto his back, and spends the next few minutes staring into the shadows of the vaulted ceilings, willing himself to fall asleep. 

Dean’s nose twitches.

Annoyed, he rubs at it with the heel of his hand. He thinks it’s nothing, really. Some kind of dream.

That is, until he hears the crackling.

With a sharp inhale, Dean shoots bolt upright and is thrown headfirst back into the night his whole world turned upside-down. Sam’s still sleeping soundly, just like he was before their entire house went up in flames, taking their mom with them. Dean can still feel the heat pouring off their house as it burned, the weight of Sam in his arms as he watched his dad try to reenter the house for their mother, the dead-eyed stare on his face as he realized he couldn’t.

There aren’t any flames yet, but _something_ ’s smoking, and that something is too close for comfort for Dean’s liking. Keeping his eyes on the opening of the loft looking out into the night, Dean jostles Sam awake while calling hesitantly for Cas. Sam swats his hand away, and it’s all Dean can do not to smack him right there.

“ _What_ , Dean?” Sam finally grouses, his hair looking a fine mess as he glares at Dean. Dean’s eyes dart over to Cas, who’s still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, but at least _looks_ alert. At least he’s trying to work with him here.

He gestures to the opening before getting slowly to his feet. “Think we’ve got trouble, fellas.”

Panic building low in his chest, he leads the way as the three of them creep over to the loft’s opening and peer outside. Whatever the hell they’d eaten for dinner threatens to make a reappearance as Dean takes in the scene on the ground below: cops, guns, torches, hell, a goddamn paddywagon…

And there, right in the middle, like good old buddies, are Heyerdahl and Gabriel.

Heyerdahl waves at them, only his fingers wiggling. He’s wearing sunglasses, even in the dead of night, and a chill runs through Dean as he watches the reflections of the flames from the torches dance in the darkened lenses. He finally snaps himself out of it and turns as sharp as he can, flattening himself against the wall and out of sight.

It’s no deterrent to Heyerdahl, though, whose laughter echoes up clear as a bell from down below. “Miss me, Dean-o?”

“Sorry, friends!” Gabriel shouts from the ground, wavin’ up at them like some kid at a carnival. “I know we’re kin, Castiel, but they were offering good money!”

“Gabriel, you son of a bitch!” Castiel yells down, and Dean’s eyes go wide at hearing Novak curse. He stares at him, just for a second, before turning his attention back to the situation at hand.

“Damn, we’re in a tight spot,” Sam mutters. He sits back on his heels, runs his hands through his hair. “Uh, come on, come on, let’s—”

“Watch it!” Dean yells, pressing his hand to the top of Sam’s head and shoving him down just as a torch comes flying into the barn. It lands on a nearby hay bale, which catches almost instantly, because when can things ever go right for a goddamn Winchester?

Dean’s still got his hand on Sam’s head and glances down at him with a smirk. “Can’t have you losin’ those luscious locks, there, Sammy,” he says, putting his weight on Sam’s head to hoist himself up quick before dragging his little brother to his feet as well. “Now come on!”

Dean turns around, trying to track down Cas before they leave the loft. And Cas must’ve left at some point in the past thirty seconds, because in his place is a genuine badass who’s grabbed the torch and is currently hurling it back out the opening toward the officers—and his cousin—gathered below.

Cas turns back to them, eyes bright against the quickly growing fire. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for me?”

Dean’s just staring, he knows he’s staring, he’s gotta _stop_ staring; he shakes his head sharply and motions for Cas to follow them. “Let’s move, handsome.”

The barn’s filling up with flames fast, and Dean coughs as he tries to squint through the smoke. There’s a sickening crack from above them, and he looks up just in time to dodge a beam that’s broken loose from the barn’s structure, falling to the ground with a crash and a crescendo of sparks.

“Gotta pick up the pace, here, fellas!” he yells urgently, hopping over the beam while trying to avoid any soft spots in the loft’s floor. 

“Ladder!” Sam shouts, shoving in front of Dean and Cas and making a beeline for the ladder tucked away in the corner. He swings round it, feet situated on the rungs, and once he’s sure the two of them are following him, starts heading down. 

The wood is hot and brittle under Dean’s hands, but he grits his teeth and keeps going until his feet hit solid ground again. He’s never felt anything like this, the scorched-earth dryness in his throat and the sweat plastering his clothes to his body, but that’s nothing compared to the relief he feels when he scans the ground floor of the barn and his eyes land on—

“Car!” he yells, waving his hand and hoping to hit Sam or Cas to get their attention. “Car, car, car! Go, go, go!”

Sam looks at him like he’s crazy, but Dean doesn’t see _him_ coming up with anything better, so the three of ‘em pile inside the thing, Sam grabbing shotgun and Cas leaning forward over the backseat, poking his head between the two of them.

“Now what?” Cas asks, looking from one Winchester to the other.

Sam slams the door shut before turning his attention on Dean. “Yeah, now what, genius?” Dean knows this is crazy, knows it’s ridiculous, he doesn’t need anyone reminding him of that. When he looks at his brother, though, when he can see the fear and panic in his eyes that he’s trying real hard to hide, _that’s_ what has his mind working overtime to get them outta this. He’s got to.

The flames are licking up the sides of the car, the whole place getting hotter with every passing second. Dean cringes when he hears the tell-tale crack of another beam going loose high above them; if even one of them gets pinned here, they’re all fucked.

More out of desperation than anything, he feels around for the ignition, and the way his heart soars when he feels not only that, but the _keys_ just sitting in it, waiting for them, has him smacking the steering wheel hard. 

“Lifesaver, baby,” he says, more to himself than anyone else as he turns the keys, hitting the dash this time when the engine roars to life. “Goddamn lifesaver!”

“Dean, are you _talkin’_ to the fucking car?”

“Trust the process, Sammy!” With that, he slams down hard on the gas, sending them careening forward through the flames.

Dean can’t hear much over their screams as the barn doors get closer and the flames shoot up higher around them, but the unmistakable sandpaper-rough voice next to his ear somehow still manages to cut through everything else.

“Dean,” Cas says, and the stress of the situation’s gotta be gettin’ to him, because he swears he feels Cas fucking tap him on the shoulder when he doesn’t respond. “Dean!”

“Little busy, Cas!”

“Dean, you’re going the wrong way! There’s no door!”

“We’re gonna make on—”

They crash through the wall of the barn before Dean can finish his sentence, splintered wood flying everywhere, the heat of the flames rolling out behind them. Dean laughs, laying on the horn as they send the police diving in opposite directions in an effort to get out of their path.

“Pleasure doing business, gents!” he yells, sticking his arm out the window and flipping them off.

He can hear Sam laughing next to him, feels the weight of his little brother’s hand smacking down hard on his shoulder in celebration.

Hell, even when he glances in the rearview mirror, he can’t help but grin when he sees Novak smiling at him. Before he can think twice, he extends his hand back, wrist flipped back to leave his palm exposed in a silent request for a high-five. 

Cas doesn’t keep him waiting long; the second his palm hits Dean’s, he grins and curls his hand into a fist in an effort to hold onto the spark from Cas’ skin on his.

“Where we headed, Dean?” Sam asks, drumming his hands on the dash before throwing one freely out the window. For a second, Dean just looks at him: the happy, carefree Sammy from when they were kids, the one he’d gone to such painstaking lengths to keep safe, the one he hadn’t seen the faintest semblance of in years.

He doesn’t know—where they’re headed, how much gas is left, how they made it out of that goddamn place alive—but he keeps driving long into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can’t fucking be _lieve_ this,” Dean grumbles. He lifts his head up and out of the car’s engine before slamming the hood down in frustration. They’d driven through the night, but any hopes Dean had had of them stumbling across a gas station before they’d broken down had just gone up in smoke. “No gas left, engine burnt up to all getout.” 

“Don’t exactly come as a surprise,” Sam mutters. He runs a hand through his hair, plastered down like he’d just showered in an entire tin of pomade. 

They all must look like that, now that Dean thinks about it. Matted hair, smoke-smudged skin, walking, talking messes on the side of the road, all three of ‘em. He reaches for one of the car’s side mirrors and tilts it over toward himself.

After a few seconds, Dean looks sadly at the car, pulled over on the side of another deserted dirt road that looks too much like the one they’d taken to get to Gabriel’s in the first place, and runs his hand along the driver’s side door. “Thought we had something special, baby.”

“I don’t believe one usually refers to cars with terms of affection.”

Dean spins on his heel and glares at Cas. The high he’d been riding from last night is long gone, replaced by the gravity of what _could’ve_ happened thanks to Gabriel’s scheming ways. The ways Cas led them right to. “And _I_ don’t believe folks usually go around throwing their friends to traitor cousins!”

Castiel stares at him. “Beg pardon?”

Dean laughs bitterly, one hand on his hip and the other tangled in his hair as he looks up at the sky in frustration. “You _brought_ us there,” he says, trying hard to keep his voice calm. “This never would’ve happened if you hadn’t—”

“I never would have suggested it if I’d known.”

“Yeah, whole lot of good that does us now, huh?”

“Dean,” Sam begins, gripping his shoulder firmly, “he didn’t double-cross us.”

“And how the hell do we know _that_ , Sammy?” Dean asks, twisting his way out of Sam’s grip.

Sam offers him a small smile. “He’s still here.”

Dean glares hard at Sam, Sam and his goddamn _logic_ , then looks over at Cas. The guy’s face, normally all hard lines and sharp edges, has gone soft and hopeful, a concerned little furrow between his brows. He takes a hesitant step toward Dean, who takes a step back.

“Dean, please trust me—”

“Why should we?” Dean snaps. He wishes he’d felt satisfaction at the way Cas backs down at the heat in his voice; instead, a tiny pit of guilt starts to build low in his chest. He keeps going anyway. “Why the hell should I trust someone whose _first_ _name_ I didn’t know twelve goddamn hours ago?”

Cas purses his lips, considering, then nods. “You’re right.” He nods at Sam, then at Dean, and starts walking past them, back in the direction from where they came. 

For a few seconds, Dean’s too stunned to react, but he recovers fast, grabbing Cas by the shoulder and whirling him back around to face them. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Leaving.” He says it as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, and Dean’s gotta laugh at how ridiculous this whole thing’s become.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Dean…” Sam’s voice is hesitant, warning, but Dean ignores him.

Cas juts his chin out and maintains eye contact, forcing Dean to stare into the blue eyes he’s spent so long trying to avoid, lest he fall even deeper into whatever the hell _this_ is. “I know when I’m not welcome.” He keeps standing there, challenging Dean to say differently, and Dean’s mind is running a mile a minute. He’s mad—at Cas, at himself for trusting Cas in the first place, but that doesn’t mean he wants him gone. Cas can’t leave them, can’t leave _him_.

So, when Cas finally makes a move and starts to turn away again, it’s only instinct that has Dean grabbing a handful of his shirt, rearing back, and decking him hard before he can think twice. 

Cas stumbles, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. When he looks down at it to see blood, there’s a fire in his eyes Dean’s never seen, not even back at Gabriel’s the night before. 

“Cas, listen—” He ducks when Cas lashes out with a sloppy punch to his jaw that barely grazes him, and Dean would be feeling good about his chances to put him in his place if the shitty punch hadn’t apparently been part of Cas’ plan. While Dean’s got his mind on dodging the punch, Cas delivers a sharp kick to Dean’s already bent knee that drops him like a sack of potatoes.

Dean grunts when his knees hit the dirt, and he’s about to haul himself back up to his feet when Cas’ boot connects with the bottom of his chin, sending him sprawling onto his back. He can hear Sam yelling at the both of them in the background, but he sure as hell ain’t listening, and he doubts Cas is, either.

Cas is on him instantly, straddling his hips and keeping him pinned. “Get the fuck off me, you son of a bitch!” Dean yells, struggling to catch Cas’ wrists and regain even the slightest upper hand he can. Fucking Cas is always one step ahead of him, though, and manages to drive the heel of one hand down against Dean’s shoulder, using it to steady himself as he delivers a punch of his own.

Dean’s head snaps back sharply against the dirt. He can taste blood welling in his mouth, and his hands shift from offense to defense as he tries to protect himself from the punches that are still coming. Cas lands a few more—to his jaw, his cheekbone, his nose—before the weight of his body is finally lifted, and Dean, for some fucked up reason, finds himself missing it the moment it’s gone.

His ears are ringing as he slowly props himself up on his elbows, wincing at the pounding in his head. He squints up into the sunlight to see Sam holding Cas back, his arms looped through Cas’. Cas isn’t even struggling, just staring at Dean, chest heaving.

“Well, well, well,” Dean says, hiding a soft gasp of pain behind gritted teeth and a well-timed sneer. “Strong _and_ silent. Don’t you just check all the boxes?”

Cas isn’t making any moves to pull away from Sam, but Sam tightens his grip all the same at that. “Here’s an idea,” Sam says, glaring down at his brother. “Why don’t you quit while you’re ahead, and shut the hell up?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” Taking care to avoid any sore spots, he dusts off his pants and shirt, then points an accusing finger at Cas. “You’re not going anywhere, Novak. Got it? Not to town, not back to Heyerdahl, not back to your fucking freakshow cousin. No plea deals or bargains or whatever the hell kinda deal you’re hoping you’ll get for turning us in.”

Silence hangs heavy between them as Sam lets Cas go, and the fact that he doesn’t move a muscle has Dean on edge. He grits his teeth when Cas finally takes a step toward him, but forces himself to stay put. 

“Contrary to whatever you may believe,” Cas says, voice quiet and cold, “I _didn’t_ know about Gabriel’s plans, and I’m not interested in selling you and your brother out to the highest bidder.” He doesn’t blink when he adds, “Don’t question my loyalty. Not again, not ever.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, holds his hands up placatingly as Cas passes. Sam’s looking just as stunned as Dean feels, and the two of them watch as Cas continues forward without looking back.

“You all right?” Sam finally asks, keeping his eyes on Cas’ retreating form.

“Word to the wise,” Dean says after a pause, clapping a hand on his little brother’s back weakly. “Don’t piss off the nerd angels.” 

This is awful. 

Miles of this, walking aimlessly toward some destination Sam’s set his heart on with nobody saying a goddamn word. Nothing but the sound of birds overhead, the occasional car rattling by, and the dirt crunching under their boots. 

Awful. Just plain shitty.

What’s shittier, though, is the fact that as they walk, Dean’s got nothing to do but stew in the scorching late-afternoon heat—not unless he wants to _talk_ to Cas, that is, and Dean’ll be damned if that happens anytime soon. Instead, he’s stuck grappling with the fact that despite it all, he _still_ can’t get over the guy who’d more or less handed his ass to him.

He should be pissed, but something about Cas—the feeling of his weight pressing down on Dean, of those thighs bracketing his hips, the intensity in his stare—has him replaying the scene in his mind. Again, and again, and again.

What Dean wouldn’t give for a goddamn beer or six right about now.

It’s early evening by the time they finally find a spot Sam deems good enough for them to set up camp at, and despite the fact that he’d spent the past six hours wishing he could just fucking _sit_ , Dean’s now antsy to keep moving. He finds himself an out when Cas starts helping Sam clear away some brush, and he hops on it faster than flies on shit.

“Where you off to?” Sam calls as Dean heads away from the campsite.

“Saw a river not too far back. Figured I’d catch us some food.”

He’s not far away enough to miss Sam’s scoff. “With what gear?”

“I’ll improvise.”

It takes more time than he’d like to admit, but after a few minutes of searching along the riverbank for supplies and tinkering with his boot laces, Dean’s got himself a makeshift fishing pole. He holds it out in front of him, turning it over in his hand to inspect his work. It’s nothing pretty, just a long, sturdy stick he’d chosen because of the stubs of branches he’d used to loop his laces around for stability, but he’s confident that it’ll get the job done.

“Good going, Winchester,” he says to himself, and for the first time in recent memory, it’s not said sarcastically. He likes the feeling.

He’s got half a mind to head back to camp just to show Sam his handiwork, but he decides it’ll be even more impressive _with_ supper attached, so he toes off his now laceless boots and rolls up each of his pant legs to just below the knees before heading to the river.

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when the water sloshes over his feet. It’s freezing, but he’s been through worse, so he steels himself and wades in deeper, scanning for the little schools of fish he knows are lurking just under the surface. He can see ‘em, and sometimes one or two are daring enough to brush against his leg, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get a fucking handle on even one.

“C’mon, you sons of bitches,” he mutters. He sucks in a breath and waits, stock-still, as a fish starts circling the tiny worm he’d managed to scrounge up and tie to the end of the laces. He refuses to take his eyes off the fish for even one second, watching it dart back and forth as it considers its options.

Dean worries his bottom lip between his teeth and refuses to blink, his arms so taut they almost start shaking. He’s halfway convinced himself he’d have better luck throwing the whole thing away and snaring a rabbit on his way back to camp when he feels it.

That’s a nibble.

That’s a goddamn _bite_.

In one quick tug, he yanks the line up and out of the water, fumbling to keep hold of the pole while simultaneously grabbing for the fish. The fish breaks the surface, a mess of wriggling scales that glint in the fading light. It’s nothing special, a bass on the smaller side, but Dean caught it, he caught it without anything, and fuck if he’s not gonna be excited about it.

“Yeah!” he crows, holding it up like it’s a prize sea bass, and it might as well be from how proud he is of the damn thing. Wrapping his hand around the fish, he stumbles back to the riverbank and tosses it onto the ground. He’ll need a way to carry the fish back to camp, and as he watches his catch flop around on the grass, he glances down at his shirt.

“Sorry, little fella,” he says, unbuttoning his new shirt, one of the threadbare ones they’d nicked back at Gabriel’s, and laying it out flat before scooping the fish up and placing it down on top of the fabric. “Gotta do what we gotta do, y’know?”

After another half hour, Dean’s got five or six small fish piled on his shirt as evidence of his handiwork. He grins down at his bounty with excitement he’s trying real hard to hide as he waits for some kind of praise.

It only takes a quick glance up for him to remember that he’s alone. 

Dean drops down next to his shirt, rolling onto his back with a frustrated sigh, the grass and pine needles tiny pinpricks against his bare skin. Tucking one hand behind his head, he gazes up at the sky, grappling with the fact that while, hell yeah, he’d love to see Sam’s awestruck eyes at his success, the ones he’s _really_ looking forward to seeing are blue.

“Ugh, finally,” Sam says when he finally catches a glimpse of him emerging from the trees. “Was starting to think you’d gotten nabbed and hauled back to Joliet.” 

Cas isn’t facing him at first, but he turns around at Sam’s acknowledgement. His eyes start at Dean’s face before quickly glancing down to his bare chest, and the way he resolutely snaps his eyes back up to Dean’s, like he’s got something to prove, makes Dean smirk.

“Yeah, you’d’ve liked that, wouldn’t you?” Dean asks, eyes fixed on Cas, who, to his credit, doesn’t back down after the initial waver.

Sam glances between the two of them before chuckling uncomfortably. “Can I get a word with you?” he asks, grabbing Dean by the elbow and leading him off to the side of the campsite. “And leave that shirt here; it smells like shit.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re welcome for the grub, by the way.” 

Sam ignores him, so Dean holds onto the shirt and the fish just to spite him.

“You gotta calm down,” he says once they’re out of earshot of Cas.

Dean stares at him. “Beg pardon? I gotta _what_?”

“Stop being such a goddamn snake to Cas. He’s done nothing wrong.”

And _this_ , this is just fucking unbelievable. Dean scoffs. “Are you forgetting who kicked whose ass here?”

“Because _you_ punched him in the face! Dean, he’s gonna have that shiner for weeks.”

Dean scoffs. “Good.”

Sam looks like he’s seconds away from smacking him. “Can you, for once in your goddamn life, stop being so stubborn?” He runs both hands through his hair, turning on his heel and keeping his back to Dean for a few seconds before turning back around. “He didn’t know. And even if he did, why the hell would he’ve stayed with us after the fact? I’m not saying it wasn’t a scare, Dean, but Jesus. Hell, _Dad_ put us in worse situations than that, and that didn’t seem to stop you from worshiping the ground he walked on.”

Dean opens his mouth to retort, but he can’t think of anything to say. Truth is, Sam’s right.

Dean hates when Sam’s right.

Sam’s face softens, and he rests a hand on Dean’s arm. “Not everyone is out to hurt us,” he says. “Not everyone is out to hurt _you_. Cas wanted to help, and when you think about it, he did. We got food, clothes, and our chains knocked off. And if his cousin thought a few cops would be enough to stop Sam and Dean Winchester, well…” He shrugs. “Fuck him.”

As much as he doesn’t want it to, Dean’s mouth quirks up in a grin. Sam squeezes his arm. “He’s _good_ , Dean. He’s not out to fuck with us. And if you gave him a chance, you’d know that.” He pauses, then adds, “Hell, I think you already do.”

Like most of their arguments, this one ends in a standstill. Dean can’t ignore the feeling that Sam’s making sense, but he’ll be damned if he says it out loud. Instead, he shifts his weight from foot to foot and sighs. “Yeah, yeah. You gonna let me cook these or what?” He gestures with his chin down to the fish bundled in his arms, and Sam sighs.

“At least put your shirt back on. You’ll scare the wildlife.”

Dean waves off his concerns, clutching the fish closer to his chest. “I’ve always been one with nature, Sammy.”

Sam flips him off. It’s answer enough for Dean, and he leads the way back to camp, working hard to ignore the way he can feel Cas’ eyes following him the whole time.

The fish fry up nice enough, and it doesn’t take long for Dean to fix three small servings. He hands off Sam’s and holds out a second one meant for Cas, but no one takes it. “You want this or what?” he asks, annoyed, but when he looks up, he sees Cas sitting on a rock off near the edge of camp. He’s not even looking in their direction, and Dean closes his eyes with a sigh. 

Grabbing a fish of his own, he pulls himself to his feet and heads over to Cas. He nudges Cas’ arm when he’s close enough, holding the fish out on an oversized leaf like some bizarre olive branch. “What’s with the sourpuss?”

The genuine surprise on Cas’ face when he looks down at the food almost hurts worse than the actual punches Dean had taken earlier in the day, and he starts to wonder if Sam’s claims had been even more on the money than he’d thought. “Thank you,” he says quietly, looking down as he takes the food.

“Didn’t answer the question,” Dean says, taking a seat next to Cas while trying to ignore Sam glancing at them every so often out of the corner of his eye.

Cas takes a bite of the fish, nodding slowly as he chews and swallows. “After earlier…” He trails off before finishing with, “I wouldn’t have expected people accused of selling others out to traitor cousins were worthy of supper.” The way he says it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, has Dean stopping mid-chew. He wants to just let the bite of fish fall out of his mouth and onto the ground, but instead he forces himself to swallow the damn thing and clears his throat.

“I was upset.”

“I noticed.”

“I just, I gotta keep us safe, you know? And I was...I thought I’d failed.” _Again_.

“Yes.”

“Not saying it’s right, but that’s how I was feeling.”

Cas fixes him with a look that has Dean pinned in place. “I know, Dean.” It’s simple enough, just three words, but somehow they encompass it all. They’re all Dean needs to hear to understand that Cas _does_ know—that he fucked up, that he was scared, that he’s sorry, that he _knows_ Cas was only trying to help.

That he gets it.

Dean lets himself look at Cas, no flinching away this time, and is surprised to find that even though most of Cas’ face is hidden in the shadows, Dean sees something new. 

He trusts him.

And _that’s_ something Dean hadn’t been prepared for.

“Come on,” he finally says, gesturing toward the fire with a nod of his head and getting to his feet. “Before it gets too cold. You _and_ the fish.”

The rest of the night goes well enough. Dean manages to coax Cas back to the fire, and the three of them trade stories before heading to bed. Dean’s exhausted, and by some miracle, he manages to fall asleep before Sam’s bear-snores take over the night.

Apparently, though, his subconscious has no plans of letting him sleep in peace, because no sooner has he closed his eyes than he’s back to the scene earlier that morning, face-to-face with Cas and his ungodly baby blues. And while he doesn’t hit Cas, he still ends up in the same position he had earlier in the day—with a few key differences. 

This time, when Cas knocks him down, he lands on something soft. _Bed_ , his mind supplies helpfully, just as Cas approaches. He’s got a hunger in his eyes, a devilish little smile playing at his lips that’s got Dean feeling some kind of way, heat building low in his belly. He reaches up to grab Cas, draw him closer, but before he can, Cas grabs his wrists and pins them down on either side of his head. He puts all his weight there, and Dean’s hips spark with want when he feels Cas settle his weight over them, bracketing them with his legs. 

He leans right up close, his face just inches from Dean’s, and Dean can’t do anything but stare up at him. He wants this, he wants this so damn bad. He pulls against Cas’ grip on his wrists, his dick stirring with interest at the situation he finds himself in, but Cas just stays there, his eyes locked with Dean’s before roaming over his face and landing on his mouth.

Dean parts his lips instinctively, and Cas’ quirk up in that once infuriating, now endearing little smirk. He leans down, slowly, slowly, so goddamn slowly, and Dean struggles to raise his head up to close the gap. Cas’ tongue pokes out to wet his lips and Dean closes his eyes, waiting for the press of Cas’ lips against his own—

Dean bolts awake, startled and panting and half-hard, to the sound of an owl’s screech echoing through the night. His gaze darts over to Sam and Cas, who are both still sleeping, none the wiser to Dean and his batshit crazy subconscious. 

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, and for the first time, he’s not sure if the response is because he’s having dreams about Cas in general, or the fact that he doesn’t want them to end.

He’s fucked.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, Dean’s focused on two things: keeping that dream a goddamn secret, and making sure Cas knows he’s sorry. It’s tough, him admitting he was wrong, but it’s better than the alternative, and that’s what’s keeping him going as they start toward wherever Sam’s got them heading towards next.

“Where we going, Sammy?” he asks.

Sam doesn’t even bother looking back when he answers, “You’ll see when we get there.”

“What the hell kind of answer is that? What are we, ten?” As if answering his own question, Dean reaches down to scoop up a handful of dirt and pebbles that he proceeds to throw in Sam’s direction.

“I know it’s not one of your strong suits,” Sam calls from a few feet ahead of them, “but there’s this little thing called ‘patience.’ Think you might like it, if you give it a try.”

Dean stares after him and shakes his head as he dusts his hands off. Cas is still walking close by, and he decides he can’t make things any worse; he might as well start trying to mend things now. “Brothers, huh?” 

Cas doesn’t look up, but he spares Dean a small, one-shouldered shrug. 

Dean waits a few more seconds for some kind of verbal answer, but when Cas stays quiet, Dean mouths a long, drawn out “Oooookay” to himself. 

He’s ready to effectively call the attempt a failure when Cas finally answers. “I wouldn’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t have any brothers,” Cas clarifies. “Your question, ‘brothers, huh’ insinuates that I’d know something about how you’re feeling, or you and Sam’s relationship. But I don’t, so I don’t.”

It’s more information than Dean had learned in going on nine months, and he files it away with the other meager tidbits he’d managed to gather. “No brothers,” he repeats. “Noted. So, uh, what about sisters? Any siblings at all?”

Cas pauses and looks at Dean, as if he’s trying to sniff out some kind of motive to his questioning, which just makes Dean feel worse. “No,” he finally says slowly. “No siblings presently.”

It’s a weird way to phrase an answer to that question, but Dean scoops it up all the same. They walk along for a few more moments in a silence that becomes more and more suffocating as they go. Dean’s finally had enough, and he decides to switch gears.

“Listen,” Dean says, nudging Cas with his shoulder. “I, uh, about the…” He trails off, gesturing uncertainly around his own cheekbone. “The thing. I might’ve overreacted. A little.” _I was scared. I_ trusted _you, we both did, and it felt like you led us straight into some kind of trap, a long con. I can’t do that. Won’t do that. I gotta protect us. I gotta protect_ Sam.

It seems like it takes all the energy Cas has to pull his lips up into a small smile, but he still does it, and Dean clings to it hard. “Only a little.”

Dean holds his thumb and forefinger a few centimeters apart, squinting at Cas through the tiny space. “Just a bit.”

The smile comes easier this time. “I understand.” He looks down and keeps walking, effectively calling the conversation finished. “But Dean, I need you to know that I was telling the truth. I wouldn’t do that. Not to Sam, not to you.”

Something in that statement gives Dean pause, and he takes an odd sense of comfort in the fact that he actually believes him.

“I know,” he finally says. “And I appreciate it. I gotta say, hell of a right hook on you, though. I wouldn’t want to be on your bad side.” Dean pauses, then shrugs. “Well, _again_.”

It’s quiet, so quiet that Dean barely catches it, but he’s pretty sure he hears Cas answer with something along the lines of, “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that.”

When Dean finally catches a glimpse of what he’s sure is their next destination, it’s all he can do not to punch Sam.

“You son of a bitch,” he mutters in disbelief, stopping in his tracks and taking in the tiny house he hadn’t seen in going on half a decade.

Sam’s not looking at him, but Dean can tell he’s smiling. “Noticed the old oak Dad used to drive by on the way here. Stroke of luck leading up to it, sure, but easy enough to pin down from there.”

Dean _does_ punch him this time, then turns back to the house that had been more of a home to both Winchester boys than their own place back in Lawrence. It’s exactly like he remembered it, like it’d been plucked right out of his memories. The deep blue paint worn down by weather, sun, and dust; the dilapidated front porch with the wicker rocking chair; the crooked window that had had to be replaced three times before Sam and Dean had learned not to play ball in the front yard. Dean’s not close enough to see yet, but he’s practically positive that the cobwebs bunched up in every corner are still intact too.

“Where are we?” Cas asks, and Dean can’t help it; he laughs.

“Cas,” he says, clapping him on the back, “we’re home.”

He doesn’t _run_ up to the front door, but it’d be a lie to say he didn’t pick up the pace. The door opens with a creak after he knocks, just wide enough for a pair of eyes to peek through, only to open fully a few seconds later. Bobby Singer, in all his bearded glory, takes in the three of them on his front porch, probably looking like they’d been dragged through hell and back. As bad as they may look, though, Dean knows he’s seen worse and so, apparently, does Bobby, because after a few seconds of thoughtful silence, he doesn’t bat an eye as he welcomes them inside in typical Bobby Singer fashion.

“Boots off,” he says. “Don’t need no dirt being tracked into the floors I just swept.”

On their way inside, Dean jerks forward when he feels Bobby cuff him around the back of the head. “Don’t think I don’t know how much time you boys have left on your sentences.”

Dean grins apologetically. “Would you believe we got let out early on good behavior?”

Bobby looks at him flatly. “Goddamn idjits, the both of you.”

No matter what, Bobby had always been there. When they’d had to bury their mom on a rainy, windy day in November; when Dean had needed help on a book report and John was nowhere to be found; when John being nowhere to be found for weeks at a time led to them needing two of their three squares. He’d always been there, and there’s not much for Dean to take comfort in lately, but the fact that Bobby still is? That’s more than enough.

“Either of you planning to fill me in?” he asks once they enter the living room. He glances at Cas, then adds, “And introducing me to the third stooge, while you’re at it?”

“Hey, hey, don’t talk about Cas like that!” Dean says. “He’s our pal, thick as thieves. Right, Sam?” 

Sam nods. “Our third musketeer.”

Bobby looks at them flatly, then, without taking his eyes off Sam and Dean, asks Cas, “You were chained to ‘em, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, my sympathies. And no sirs in this house,” Bobby says, shaking his head. “Cas, is it?” Without waiting for an answer, Bobby rummages around in a small closet and pulls out a threadbare towel, which he tosses over to Cas. “Shower’s down the hall, out the door on the right and into the backyard. Go and get yourself cleaned up while I catch up with these two.”

Bobby waits for the door down the hall to click shut after Cas before leaning forward to envelop both Sam and Dean into one giant hug. It’s rough and warm and smells a bit like whiskey, but it’s the closest to home Dean’s had in years. He takes a few seconds to just breathe it in before wrapping an arm around Bobby and returning the gesture.

“Hey, Bobby,” he says, patting him on the back.

Sentimentality over, Bobby takes advantage of the position to smack each of them upside the head. “What the hell are you two thinking?” he growls. “Lucky there ain’t an APB out on you.”

“There’s not?” Sam asks, his voice sounding equal parts surprised and disappointed, and Dean’s gotta laugh.

“Better luck next felony,” he says with a shrug, dropping down onto Bobby’s old couch with its mismatched patterns, faded colors, and questionable stains, all older than Dean himself.

“Yeah, well, that’s likely comin’ a hell of a lot sooner than you think,” Bobby grouses, taking a seat in his own worn-out recliner in the corner. “What were you two thinkin’, springing the coop like that? And taking _him_ —” he gestures vaguely upstairs toward Cas and the bathroom, “—with you, for chrissakes. Who even _is_ he?”

“He’s a friend,” Sam says quickly. “We didn’t have much of a choice. And we trust him. _Right_ , Dean?”

Dean grumbles something in the affirmative; Bobby looks at him warily as he reads between the lines of Dean’s response. “You know what, less I know, the better. You boys thirsty?”

It doesn’t take long for the scene to become a mirror of what Dean remembers as the good old days: he and Bobby talking cars and current events, Sam with his nose in a book, sipping his beer distractedly, and damn, had he missed this. The defenses he hadn’t even realized he’d built up at Joliet (and well before, if he’s being completely honest with himself) start to crumble as he sinks deeper into that ratty old couch, replaced by something familiar, something real, something home.

“No,” he says, squinting as he tries to figure out whether or not Bobby’s fucking with him. “Now you’re just talking crazy.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, boy.” Taking a long pull of his beer, Bobby gestures toward the radio with his free hand. “Welles had folks so worked up and spooked, seemed like the whole town was heading for the hills by the first commercial break.”

Dean isn’t sure he wouldn’t have been one of them if he’d heard the broadcast, but he decides to keep that (and the pang of disappointment that he’d missed it in the first place) to himself. “Not you, though,” he says instead.

Dean may as well have asked him if he still believed in Santa Claus judging by the insulted look Bobby shoots him. “You think I’m about to be taken for a fool by some goddamn radio show?”

Dean shakes his head with a grin as he brings his beer to his lips. “‘Course not,” he answers before shifting his focus to his little brother. “Hey, Sammy, what’ve you got—”

He trails off, his throat going dry when his gaze catches on one freshly showered Castiel Novak standing at the entrance to the sitting room. He’s looking like he feels awkward as all hell, but as far as Dean’s concerned, he’s never looked better. 

Bobby had given them free reign of the boxes of old clothes in his bedroom to find new outfits, and Cas had taken full advantage, dressed in tan pants and a white button-up. He’d even managed to find himself a matching waistcoat, a snug piece fitting him in all the right places, with a blue tie tucked behind it. He’s got his shirtsleeves rolled up, exposing strong forearms that have Dean unconsciously wetting his lips. Combine it all with the flush in his cheeks from the hot water, the way stray curls of his damp hair stick to his forehead—

Focus _, Winchester. Focus._

“Damn, where you off to?” he asks lightly, trying to hide his stumble behind a quip.

Cas’ brows furrow together, and Dean’s a goddamn goner. “I thought I’d be continuing on with you.”

“No, I just...you look fancy.”

Cas looks at him, still confused, before saying, “I wanted to look nice.”

 _You do_ , Dean wants to say, heart beating so hard and fast in his chest that it’s making him feel like a goddamn cartoon character. _You really, really do._

He’s gotta do something other than gawk, but apparently his body will hear none of it. “Sammy?” Dean asks, his voice coming out strangled as he forces himself to look away from Cas and toward his brother. “You next?”

Sam waves him off absently, not taking his eyes off his book. Which, thank god, probably means he didn’t see any of the mess Dean had just stumbled into. “Nah, you go. This is just getting good.”

“All right,” Dean says, secretly relieved to have an excuse to get his ass out of the room. “There’s a beer in the fridge for you too, Cas. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

He’s started mentally preparing himself to walk past Cas when Sam pipes up again. “Hey, Dean? It’s a little hot out.”

“So? It’s always hot out here.”

Sam shrugs and—did that fucker just _wink_ at him? “Just saying. A cold shower might do you some good.”

Dean sighs as the water pounds against his shoulders. It’s the first chance they’ve all had since Joliet to clean themselves up, and as Dean scrubs his hands over his own face, his mind starts drifting to Cas’, warm and clean, free of the dirt and grime Dean had grown so accustomed to over the months. He rests his palms against the shower wall as his mind drums up a picture of Cas.

Dean’s dick twitches with interest at both visions of Cas: one clean and fresh, the other smudged with dirt and sweat. There’s really no use trying to fight it. Chewing anxiously on his bottom lip, Dean’s hand finds his cock and, keeping one pressed up against the wall, he closes his eyes and starts to stroke. Mental images of Cas working, Cas walking, Cas knocking him to the ground, Cas using that kerchief he _still_ carries in his back pocket to wipe the smudge of dirt off Dean’s face.

His hand moves faster and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter as he imagines Cas’ weight on him, a spit-slick hand around his cock. Sighing, Dean lets his head drop back, the water soaking his hair. He’s close, and he reaches up with his free hand to stroke underneath the same eye Cas had after the train, the feeling sending sparks along his spine and down into his belly. He finishes as quietly as he can before resting a forearm against the wall and pressing his forehead against it.

If he hadn’t already thought he was gone on Cas, he’d damn sure know it now.

Dean feels like he’s getting ready for a costume party as he sifts through the rest of the well-worn trousers, shirts, ties, and hats in Bobby’s room. No matter how old they are, they’re still eons better than anything he’d had in his own closet growing up, and he can’t help but lean in and enjoy the process.

Grabbing a fancy dress shirt covered with swirls of flowers, he slides in socked feet in front of Bobby’s ancient full-length mirror and holds it in front of his chest, one sleeve pulled out wide. He purses his lips—as much as he likes it, he can’t be walking around in something so easily identifiable, not when they’re still technically on the lam, so he tosses it over his shoulder and back onto the bed with a sigh.

A few more failed attempts later, he’s got what he thinks is his final product. While Dean hadn’t been expecting a rags-to-riches situation, he can’t help but feel pleasantly surprised at the reflection that looks back at him in the mirror.

He’d managed to find himself a pair of light gray trousers and matching suspenders, then paired them with a faded burgundy button-up. The sleeves hang down past his wrists, and Dean wastes no time rolling them up to the elbows; he’s not dealing with more of the Kansas heat than he absolutely has to.

Something’s still missing, though, and he finds it quickly in the form of a charcoal flap-top cap. “Bingo,” he mutters, putting it on and adjusting it carefully before looking at himself in the mirror.

“Not bad, Winchester,” he says, shooting a quick finger gun at himself in the mirror with a click of his tongue before turning to the side and smoothing the shirt down against his chest. “Not bad at all.”

Adjusting the shirt and suspenders as he walks back down the hall to the sitting room, Dean ignores the way Sam whistles when they pass each other in the hall, and calls out, “You rob a Newman’s for these, Bobby? Sure are nice.”

Cas doesn’t look up right away, engrossed in whatever knickknacks Bobby’s got stored up in his shelves. When he does, though, Dean’s stunned at the fact that he can practically see the way the other man’s breath catches in his throat. Cas averts his eyes fast, but not fast enough for Dean not to notice.

“You also look…” Cas clears his throat, struggling for the right word, “nice.”

Dean tries to play it off, hoping that the flush in his cheeks isn’t as obvious as it feels to him. “Amazing what a good scrub’ll do for ya,” he says, dropping back down onto his seat on the couch.

Bobby looks between the two of them, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. “What’s happening between you two idjits?” he asks, and damn does Dean wish he knew. 

“Nothin’, Bobby,” he answers for the both of them. “Don’t worry about it.”

While trying and failing to avoid Cas’ gaze, Dean spends a few minutes pretending to read an old newspaper before he notices a torn flyer pinned under a cup on the coffee table. Recognizing an out when he sees one, he grabs for it and scrutinizes the fine print. “Charlie’s Radio Station,” he reads, looking up at Bobby. “Where every song’s always in tune...Bobby, what the hell is this?”

“Hell if I know,” Bobby says. “But I ain’t about to stick my nose up at free money.”

Dean’s brows furrow together at that, and he can see Cas perk up from his seat. “Free mo...ten dollars?” He’d tried to hide the disbelief in his voice, but it’s impossible with something like this staring him in the face. “They’ll pay you _ten dollars_ to sing into a can?”

“Can you sing?” Cas asks curiously.

Dean chuckles. “For ten dollars, I’ll do just about anything.” 

Sam takes that moment to return to the sitting room, toweling off his ridiculous mop of hair. “He’s not lying,” he says, taking a seat next to Dean on the couch. His outfit’s got him looking like a bona fide academic, a white button-up shirt paired with brown checkered pants and suspenders. All he’s missing is the tweed overcoat (which, if Dean’s being honest, he’s surprised he hadn’t found in Bobby’s mishmash of clothes) with elbow patches. “What’re you on about?”

Dean hands him the flyer and gives him a minute to read it over before flashing a grin. “Well, who are we to deny the world of our ridiculous talents?”

“Ridiculously terrible, you mean,” Bobby grumbles. He gets up and heads to the shower area himself, returning shortly with all of their clothes from Gabriel’s bundled in his arms. He drops them unceremoniously into Dean’s lap, raising an eyebrow when Dean opens his mouth to protest. “All I know is you boys ain’t going anywhere before you take out the trash.”

A few moments later, the four of them are gathered around a barrel out back, flames licking up its sides as they devour the last remaining memories of their time at Joliet and the hiccups they’d experienced in their first few days as free (it’s not inaccurate, Dean reasons, even if the law doesn’t necessarily see it that way) men.

“Good goddamn riddance,” Sam murmurs, craning his neck up to watch smoke disappear into the night sky. 

Fire still makes Dean testy, especially fire around those closest to him, but he pushes past it and focuses instead on the fact that although he’d mourned the loss of that prison jumpsuit that had fit Cas so well, he can’t help but admit that this new getup is a welcome upgrade. Dean smiles in spite of himself. He rocks back and forth on his heels, hands jammed deep into his pockets, before nudging Cas with his elbow.

“All that hard work,” he says, tilting his chin up toward the inky dark sky, where the smoke’s curling up toward the stars in thin tendrils. “Up in smoke.”

Cas nods, but doesn’t say much else. Dean takes the moment to admire the way his profile looks in the low light of the fire, all sharp lines and edges that’re somehow still tinged with an inherent softness. It’s nice, and Dean’s gotta fight hard not to reach out and run his hand along Cas’ jaw.

Looking around the scrapyard Bobby’s set up in the back of his house, Dean’s eyes land on an unopened bottle of whiskey. Desperate for something else to do with his hands, he grabs it, unscrews the top, and takes a long swig before passing it around to the rest of them. Once they’ve all had their fill, he takes a step toward the barrel and raises the bottle before pouring the few remaining drops over the clothes.

The flames flicker with the introduction of the alcohol, and Dean squints against the smoke that starts to burn his eyes. 

“To better days.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dean studies the flyer, which Sam’s got held up in front of the tiny ramshackle building. It’s not much of anything; Dean probably would’ve continued right on past without a second look. Hell, it sure doesn’t look like anything worth stopping for. The only reason he knows it ain’t just an old run-of-the-mill house is because of the massive signal tower out front.

“That it?” he asks.

“There isn’t even a sign,” Cas says.

“Well, can’t hurt to try.” Sam refolds the paper and sticks it in his back pocket before marching up to the entrance. He knocks on the door, and they only have to wait a few seconds before someone opens it up. A woman, no more than a few years younger than them with fiery red hair, opens the door just a crack, looking at them suspiciously.

“You boys lost?”

“That depends,” Sam says. The woman quirks a brow, and she opens the door a bit wider, leaning against the jamb.

“On what?”

“Whether or not Charlie’s ready to get his hands on a new platinum single,” Dean finishes. He mirrors her stance, leaning against the opposite jab with his arms crossed over his chest. She matches him toe-to-toe, so long that Dean actually starts to wonder if she’ll let them in at all, when she finally cracks a smile.

“Well, come on in, fellas,” she says, extending her hand toward Dean for a shake. Dean takes it, then glances back over his shoulder at Sam and Cas with a grin as they follow her inside.

The studio’s tiny, but Dean’s still entranced by the posters and framed records they pass, and he damn near stops in his tracks when they get to the sound booth. The sound boards and systems and equipment—they’re all responsible for some of the best memories he’s got of his childhood, and seeing them sends him back to nights when he was younger, when things were better. When all four Winchesters would pile into the sitting room to listen to the radio, Dean hopping up into their dad’s lap while their mother fed Sammy and scolded John every time he’d turn up the radio instead of muting it during particularly inappropriate Abbott & Costello bits. John would apologize before making exaggerated faces at Dean, who’d dissolve into fits of giggles that made his dad laugh too, ruffling his hair.

Dean shakes his head sharply. No use in yearning for things he hasn’t had in years, things that are impossible for him to get back, no matter how much he wishes for the opposite.

“This here’s Billie,” the woman says, gesturing toward a dark-skinned woman with sharp, corkscrew curls sitting on a bench in front of an old piano tucked into the corner of the studio. She’s tuning a guitar she’s got balanced on her thigh, and looks up when they approach, but doesn’t say a word. “She’ll be accompanying ya on your single.”

“Afternoon,” Sam says with a polite smile and nod, the kissass. Dean’s almost pleased by the fact that she doesn’t respond.

“How long you been playing?” Dean tries, only to be met with the same results. He rocks awkwardly on the balls of his feet, then tries again. “Don’t talk much, I take it.”

“Don’t need to.” She fixes the three of them with a look—not a glare, exactly, but something stern enough that Dean knows it’s the furthest thing from their best interest to get on her bad side.

“Billie’s one of the best guitarists this side of the Mississippi,” the woman who’d invited them in adds proudly. “Her playing speaks for itself.”

Dean nods. “All right, so, uh, where’s Charlie? Ain’t exactly much space in here where he could hide.”

The redhead beams proudly. “You’re looking at her.”

“You’re Charlie?”

“Sure am,” she says. Her eyes narrow when none of them respond, and she shoots them an accusing look. “Is that a problem?”

“No, no, no,” Sam says quickly. “It’s just…”

“Radio’s a man’s game.” She says it quick and sure, like it’s something she’s been forced to address for ages now, and Dean realizes guiltily that she probably has. “Might’a been. Ain’t now.” Their continued silence must be enough of an answer in itself, because she’s glaring now, arms crossed over her chest. “Do you sirs got yourselves a radio station?”

“No,” Dean finally admits for the three of them.

“Then I—and I mean this in the nicest way possible—would shut the hell up.” She smiles brightly at them and claps her hands together. “Now, who wants to record a song?”

Charlie works fast. Ten minutes, and she’s got them all crammed into the studio, the three of them situated in front of a microphone hanging from the ceiling. Dean’s in the middle, and he can’t stop himself from glancing back and forth between Charlie and the microphone.

“Should we just begin?” Cas asks, and he hadn’t thought about it before, but _Jesus Christ_ is Dean ready to hear what Cas’ singing voice sounds like. 

Charlie’s eyes flick up, but she keeps her finger to her lips and shakes her head. “You,” she finally says, pointing at Dean. “You sing lead.”

Dean stares at her. “I sing what, now?”

She jabs him in the chest with her finger and nods. “I know lead singers when I see ‘em. Front and center, prettyboy.” When Dean doesn’t move, she grabs him by the arm and drags him in front of the microphone before nodding at the rest of them and hopping into the soundbooth. 

Cas leans in, and Dean has to repress a shudder when he feels the heat of Cas’ breath ghost along his ear and the side of his neck. “Thought you said singing was one of your talents,” he says, voice quiet and teasing.

 _Oh no. Not now._ Dean huffs out a laugh, tugging his suspenders away from his chest and letting his thumbs glide down them. “Just didn’t want to show y’all up, is all. Common courtesy and all that.”

Cas purses his lips. “Come on, Winchester,” he says. “Show me up.”

Dean closes his eyes and digs his hands deep into his pockets to try and pull himself together. He’s jerked back to reality when he hears Charlie tapping against the glass window of the studio with a clipboard; he’s gotta make a note to thank her later.

“Lyrics are right in front of you,” she shouts through the glass. They each grab a copy, and Dean scans the words quickly. He remembers the song itself well enough, a number his father used to hum on those same warm nights when they were young and things were normal. As hard as he tries to school his emotions, though, when he looks back up at her, his face must betray the nerves he’s feeling, because she just laughs. “Ain’t you the ones who told me I should get ready for a hit single? Come on, boys,” she says, tapping on the glass with two fingers, “shock and awe me. Billie’ll play you in. In five, four, three, two...”

The twang of Billie’s guitar rings out in the studio, and Dean practically jumps out of his skin. He turns around for a split second to watch her play; just a few notes in and it’s clear the woman’s incredible, damn-near god-tier, her fingers flying over the strings as second-nature as breathing. 

Sam and Cas take their cues first, and duet the first line together: _In constant sorrow, all through his days._

And something, something about their voices and Billie’s playing has him feeling all right—hell, confident, even. When Sam and Cas sidestep away from the microphone, leaving room for him to take over, he steps forward without a second thought, the microphone just inches from his lips, and starts to sing.

 _I am a man of constant sorrow_ _  
__I've seen trouble all my day_ _  
__I bid farewell to old Kentucky_ _  
__The place where I was born and raised_

He takes a step back to let Sam and Cas crowd in and echo the last line before stepping forward again to continue, feeling more and more like he owns the place. 

_For six long years I've been in trouble_ _  
__No pleasures here on earth I found_ _  
__For in this world I'm bound to ramble_ _  
__I have no friends to help me now_

This time, when Sam and Cas swoop in, Dean wraps his arms around them, pulling them in close and mouthing along as they sing, _He has no friends to help him now_. He grins widely at the two of them, knowing that line couldn’t be further from the truth, and the returning smiles they shoot back are more than enough to keep him going.

 _It's fare thee well my old lover_ _  
__I never expect to see you again_ _  
__For I'm bound to ride that northern railroad_ _  
__Perhaps I'll die upon this train_

 _You can bury me in some deep valley_ _  
__For many years where I may lay_ _  
__Then you may learn to love another_ _  
__While I am sleeping in my grave_

 _Maybe your friends think I'm just a stranger_ _  
__My face, you'll never see no more_  
 _But there is one promise that is given_ _  
I'll meet you on god's golden shore_

Dean can’t help it; by the end of the song, he’s got a smile a mile wide as Sam and Cas finish up with, _he’ll meet you on god’s golden shore_. Billie finishes up the last few chords, and the studio bursts into a barrage of laughter and cheers and hollers. 

Dean turns his attention to Billie almost immediately. “That was some mighty fine guitar-playing,” he says with a grin. “Next thing they’ll tell me is you sold your soul to be able to play like that.” He grins at her, feeling an odd need to impress her—or at the very least, get her to _not_ look at him like he’s shit on her shoe. She doesn’t reply right away, and Dean’s convinced he’ll just never get her to crack when she presses a finger to her lips in a hushing motion, a smug little smile making itself known.

He laughs and holds out his hand and, to his surprise, she takes it and gives it a firm shake.

Charlie’s back in the studio a moment later, hands on her hips while she waits for the three of them to calm down.

“So?” Sam finally asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “What’d you think?”

She’s silent for another agonizing moment before she too breaks into a grin. “Not bad, boys,” she says approvingly. “Not bad at all.”

* * *

“Hot damn, what a day, boys!” Dean says with a laugh. He leans back against a tree, legs crossed at the ankles, and takes a long pull of one of the beers Bobby’d sent them off with. Say what you will about his people skills, but the man knows how to put together care packages like the best of ‘em.

According to Charlie, their recording wasn’t just “not bad,” but one of the best she’d heard in recent memory. Ushering them out of the studio, she’d explained that this would be a hit with the radio stations, and although Dean had had a feeling she’d been blowing smoke up their asses, none of that mattered when she’d handed each of them their share of payment.

“Thirty dollars,” Sam says, holding out each of their bills. Dean doesn’t remember them ever having that much money at once when they were kids, and a pang of regret pierces his chest as he’s suddenly swamped by the thought that as hard as he’d tried, he’d never been able to give Sammy that.

 _You couldn’t give him that, but you gave him everything you could_. 

“Yeah, don’t get ‘em too close to the fire, there, Sammy,” Dean says. “Burnin’ up all our hard work.” That earns him a glare from his little brother, but he just shakes his head with a grin. “This whole thing’s been a hell of a time, huh?” Dean continues. He looks down at his beer, thumbing at the label once more before musing, “Somethin’ to tell the kids someday.”

Cas breaks out into sputtering coughs, dropping his beer to the ground and pressing a fist to his chest.

“Cas? Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, dropping his own beer and thumping his fist against Cas’ back. “Hypothetical, pal, come on.” He waits for Cas to regain a bit of composure, sucking in deep breaths, before flashing him a small grin. “Ain’t no way any of us is having kids anytime soon, anyway, right?”

Shaking his head, Cas clears his throat. “No,” he says. “Having children, though...that’s always been a bit of a sticking point between my family and I. It just caught me off guard.” He glances around at the mess of spilled and spit-up beer before looking up and Dean and Sam sheepishly. “I, uh, apologize for the mess.”

Sam chuckles. “Dean’ll do that to you,” he says, getting to his feet and clapping Cas on the back, pointedly ignoring the middle finger Dean shoots his way. “I’m starving. Gonna go check on the poles.”

“Don’t get eaten,” Dean calls after him. There’s a few seconds of silence before a pinecone comes rocketing out of the darkness and smacking Dean right on the forehead before he can even think to react. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, rubbing at the sore spot, before feeling around on the ground for the projectile and tossing it into the fire. “You’re gonna pay for that, you asshole!”

There’s no response save for Sam’s laughter echoing back through the makeshift camp.

Once Sam’s gone, it’s just him and Cas and the crickets, and Dean’s suddenly hyperconscious—of how loud he’s breathing, of the fire crackling between them, the beer sloshing around as he drinks just a little bit faster. He’s almost relieved when Cas gets up and heads into the woods to take a leak, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts.

That relief dissipates real quick when Cas chooses to take a seat next to him upon his return.

He’d thought—hoped—this feeling would go away the more time he’d spent with Cas, but it’s only getting stronger, and if Dean’s being completely honest, he has no idea what to do with that. He can spend some time figuring it out in the future, but for now, he just keeps drinking. It’s easier.

“You have quite the singing voice,” Cas says quietly.

Dean coughs a little, but recovers fast. “Yeah, you’re not so bad yourself.” Dean grins at him, eyes dancing in the firelight. “You a crooner back before all this?”

Castiel scoffs. “Hardly.”

And Dean doesn’t know why, exactly, but he needs Cas to know that he wasn’t joking. “Seriously, man,” he says. “You were good. You _are_ good.”

“That’s kind of you.”

Dean shrugs. The tree bark is rough and grating against his back, and he shifts slightly to scratch an itch. “Ma always taught me to tell the truth, and that’s what I’m doin’.”

Cas smiles down into the fire, and Dean rubs the back of his neck, watching the way the flames dance along Cas’ cheekbones and jaw. “Well, thank you just the same.”

“Sure.”

They’re back in that silence again, crickets chirping, flames crackling, an occasional owl hooting overhead. Dean licks his lips as he studies his beer. 

“You want one of these?” he asks suddenly, holding the bottle up so Cas can see.

Cas looks a little startled when he looks up, then slowly holds up his half-drunk bottle. “Thank you, though,” he says with a soft grin, then, “Can I ask you a question?”

The way Cas is looking at him, not _scared_ , exactly, but sure as hell not comfortable, either, as if he’s nervous to bother Dean, has him scrambling to do damage control and reassure Cas before he’s even said a word. “‘Course, man.”

“Why did you tell everyone that you were arrested for robbing a bank?”

Dean purses his lips. “If I tell folks something different than what really happened,” he finally says, taking care to choose each and every word, “it makes it feel less real. Like more of a story. And if I’m lucky, sometimes...sometimes that makes it sting less.”

Cas tilts his head and looks at him, eyes narrow and curious in the dull light of the fire. He considers him for a few seconds, and Dean must’ve done a hell of a job making him feel comfortable, because he asks, “Makes what sting less?”

Dean takes a long breath, digging down deep in his chest for all the air hidden down there. He doesn’t have to do this; he doesn’t have to do _anything_ ; he could stop right now—

“I’d never be able to prove it. Hell, dunno if I’d even _want_ to, but it was always...I had my suspicions about having been set up.”

“By who?”

Goddamn it, Dean, you don’t have to—

“Me ‘n Sam’s old man.”

He’s staring into the fire as he says it, but he can still feel Cas’ eyes on him, and knows they’ve gone wide, round as saucers. He doesn’t say anything, though, just sits there with his mouth shut, and hell, Dean’s in it now.

“It’s nothing more than a hunch,” he says again, as if Cas had the means and motive to go tattling back to John. “But I...the day I got picked up, I’d had a, uh, a friend over. Dad wasn’t supposed to be home, should’ve been gone the entire week, but…” He shrugs helplessly. “He wasn’t. Caught the two of us in the spare room, damn near threw me through a wall. Pissed me off enough that I up and left, and was dumb enough to tell him where I was heading.” He chews on his bottom lip, trying to force himself past the memory and wrap it up quick. “I made it too easy for him.”

Cas is quiet for a long while. “Your own father set you up,” Cas starts slowly, and in the back of his mind, Dean appreciates that he’s taking him at his word, no _you think he set you up_ bullshit, “because you like men.” It’s not a question, more like a request for confirmation, and Dean looks up, surprised to see that Cas is actually looking at him, and not in a disgusted way, either.

He thinks that’s what gives him the guts to clarify. He shrugs, and Cas’ eyebrow quirks up. “No?”

Dean shrugs again. “Men, women, don’t really care. Just want someone who gives a shit, you know?”

Cas studies him for a few seconds before turning back toward the fire. “Yes,” he says finally, so soft Dean almost misses it. “I think I do.”

They sit there in a silence that’s become more companionable than awkward, for which Dean’s eternally grateful. He palms around behind him until he finds a sturdy stick, then pokes it into the flames to adjust the kindling. More sparks fly up, starkly bright against the inky sky above them, and Dean can’t hold back a cough as a curl of smoke floats in his face.

“If we’re sharing secrets,” Cas begins, his words coming out slow and careful. Shit, if this is some kind of payback for Dean takin’ his sweet-ass time spitting his own secret out, it’s goddamn excruciating. He’s just about to ask Cas to come out with it already when the guy says, “There was never a treasure.” 

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but then he realizes it ain’t a question.

“When’d you figure it out?”

The corner of Cas’ mouth quirks up in a smile, and for a split second, Dean’s sent back to that day at the train, the first time he’d seen Cas smile after rubbing some dirt off Dean’s already dirty face. “Few days after you first told me.”

Dean laughs, resting his head back against the tree before finishing off the rest of his beer. “Guess witches don’t exactly make for realistic tales, huh?” When Cas shakes his head, Dean mutters, “Good thing I didn’t waste both our time goin’ into the details, then.”

Cas studies him for a few seconds, and Dean’s about to change the subject when Cas finally asks, “So what is it, really?”

Dean frowns. “What’s—”

“The reason we left. There had to have been some motivation, other than simple escape.”

“Oh. Uh—” Dean rubs the back of his neck, then decides Sam wouldn’t care if Cas knew anyway. “Why does anyone do anything? Love.” 

Cas goes stiff at that, and Dean’s quick to elaborate.

“Sam’s got himself a girl,” he says hurriedly. “Miss Jessica Moore. She’s been waiting. Still writes him letters and everything. Seeing him moping over her day and night, especially knowing what he’d been thrown into the clink for isn’t even _bad_ , morally speaking...it just, it gets you thinking.”

Cas considers this. “That’s very sweet.”

“Yeah, they’re cute. Together for three years before this. Reckon they’re ready to take on anything now.”

“It would appear so.” Cas pauses, then looks up at Dean again. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“You must have someone you’re yearning to return to, as well.” Cas says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as if it’s plausible that Dean would really have anyone willing to stick around for him after all this time. He’s been told it enough times in his life, that he’s not much more than a pretty face; there’s no way he’d have someone stick around for years, for a pretty face they can’t even see. “Surely.”

It’s said casually enough, but with the way Cas is talking, Dean can’t tell how Cas hopes he’ll respond. Finally, he smirks down into the fire before jerking his thumb back toward his own chest. “You’re looking at him. Really, though. I’m just the wingman, help Sammy get back to his girl and all. ‘S just an added bonus to get out myself. Don’t like to stay stuck in one place for too long, you know?” _Oh,_ that’s _rich, Dean, coming from the guy who hadn’t left his hometown until he’d been thrown in goddamn_ prison _._

Cas nods, taking a sip of his beer, and Dean absolutely doesn’t watch the way his lips wrap around the bottle, wet and dark and glistening in the firelight. “Chains will do that, won’t they?”

Dean chuckles. “Got that right.” Dean’s eyes catch on Sam’s abandoned beer and he grabs it. “He ain’t much of a drinker anyway. Doubt he’ll miss it.” He blinks one eye closed and peers down into the bottle to check for bugs—as if he could see ‘em, anyway—before draining half the thing in two long pulls. “So, hey,” he says suddenly, pressing a fist to his chest and letting out a soft burp. He glances over at Cas to gauge his reaction, and is secretly pleased to see that Cas doesn’t look anything but amused. “If you’d known all this time, why didn’t you pack up and leave?”

For some reason, that question earns him a look like he’s crazy. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Cas says slowly, “but the last time I tried that, I ended up with a black eye before making it so that you couldn’t walk without limping for a full day.”

Dean’s cheeks are burning—at both the memory and the places his mind goes at Cas’ choice of words—and he clears his throat. “Yeah,” he finally says with a chuckle. “Duly noted...and apologized for. Again.”

“Apology accepted. Again.” Cas smiles, then averts his eyes once more. Dean really wishes he’d just keep looking. “I suppose I didn’t want to.”

Dean shifts as a spark sets itself alight in his chest, and he takes a breath, willing himself not to blow whatever progress he’s made with Cas tonight. “You don’t have to lie, Cas,” he says. Cas’ head shoots up and he looks at Dean with an odd mix of confusion and panic. Dean grins. “It’s because I’m just such a joy to be around, ain’t it?”

Cas visibly relaxes at that, then smiles. “Something like that.”

The corner of Dean’s lips quirk up in a smile, and he holds his beer out in a toast. “Well, I’ll drink to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's the song the boys sang!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mFpEYOPBsDU)


	7. Chapter 7

It feels nice, Dean realizes, having the air clear and free between the three of them now. No lies, no wool pulled over any more eyes. It’s almost like he’s able to release the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding this entire time.

He likes it, almost as much, he’s starting to realize, as he likes Cas.

Dean can’t put his finger on how, but ever since that night at the fire, Cas has been...different. And it ain’t the different Dean usually gets when he tells folks about his preferences; this is almost the exact opposite, something Dean takes more comfort in than he’d readily admit.

“You’re telling me,” Dean says as they walk, “that you’ve never thought to put a single drop of product in here? That it’s just this perpetually ridiculous naturally?” He reaches over to ruffle a hand in Cas’ hair. Cas promptly shoves him away with a small smile and roll of his eyes.

“It’s not some kind of geographical oddity, Dean,” he says, stiff phrasing that, Dean’s come to learn, is a staple of Cas’ speaking style, and more important, sense of humor. “It’s just hair.”

“Dean’s just annoyed he can’t convince anyone else to switch to his choice of pomade,” Sam pipes up with a smirk. 

“Don’t act like you haven’t gotten something good outta my damn expertise,” Dean says, shoving his brother playfully. “You’ve had nicer hair than Jessica ever since you became a Dapper Dan man.”

“I’ll tell her you said that. Don’t think I won’t.”

“She knows it’s true, too, you moron.” Chuckling, Dean shoves Sam once more as he passes, but is surprised to feel no retaliation from his brother. Turning around, he spots Sam, stopped in his tracks with his head turned looking back from where they came. Confused, he tugs Cas to a halt as well, and the two of them follow Sam’s gaze.

“Uh, what’s the holdup?” Dean asks, leaning forward to wave a hand in front of his brother’s face. “Sam? Saaaaaam—”

“You hear that?”

Dean shuts up and listens. Sure enough, there’s the sound of a car motor not too far off, and gaining ground fast, by the sound of it. 

It doesn’t take long for Dean to spot it: first spot the puffs of dirt being kicked up, then the jalopy itself, cresting the horizon. The sound only gets worse as the car continues barreling towards them, and Dean cringes at the telltale clanks and clangs of poor maintenance as the thing struggles down the road, kicking up even more dust—and something that looks oddly enough like slips of paper—as it goes.

“What the hell?” Sam murmurs.

“What the hell is right,” Dean says.

Cas tilts his head curiously at the oncoming car, and goddamn it, it’s such a stupidly endearing little motion that it’s all Dean can do not to grab him by the cheeks and plant one on him right then and there. 

As much as he wants to, he wouldn’t have had the time anyway—the car’s pulling up next to them in a matter of seconds, and a gangly gentleman with a flop-top of hair poking out from under a cap leans out the window, smiling and loose like he’s just out for a casual Sunday drive. 

“Howdy, boys,” he says with a tip of his newsboy. “Is this the road to Eudora?”

Eudora...they’re close to Eudora? Dean glances over to Sam, who’s clearly got the same train of thought going in his head: Eudora’s no more’n twenty minutes from Lawrence by automobile, two or three hours by foot. Practically nothin’. Two or three hours from where they need to be.

If only they knew where they _were_.

“Well, let’s see, here,” Sam says, squinting up ahead of them. “North’s thataway, which means I’d keep following this road here until you get to—”

“Nah, he’s gotta pull a left before that,” Dean interjects, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the open window frame.

Sam stares at him like he’d just suggested the guy drive his car straight off the next cliff he sees. “Since when? Friend,” he says, addressing the driver, “I’m positive you’ve gotta…”

The guy cranes his neck to look behind him as Sam rambles on; Dean follows his gaze, and that’s when he notices a handful of other cars heading their way. Newsboy situates himself back behind the wheel and smiles again.

“Why don’t you boys hop in while you think it over?”

Dean’s not an idiot—he knows something about it seems off—but it’s a free ride closer to where they need to be, so he doesn’t hesitate in climbing into the passenger seat. Sam and Cas follow into the back, and Newsboy throws the car into gear, jerking them forward.

“Garth Fitzgerald,” he says as he drives, sticking his hand out for each one of them to shake while keeping his eyes on the road ahead. He winks at Dean before adding, “The fourth.”

“Uh, congratulations,” Dean says. “I’m Dean, that’s Cas, and the moron who was trying to give you wrong directions is Sam. So anyway, like I was saying, you’ll wanna—”

“Sir,” Cas says from the backseat, cutting Dean off. “I believe some of your folding money’s come unstowed.”

That has Dean’s brows furrowing together, and he turns back, elbow over the seat. Sure enough, there’s a sizable satchel plopped between Cas and Sam, open and full to bursting with twos, twenties, and fifties.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dean mutters, watching as Cas and Sam struggle to keep the cash from flying out the car’s open windows. Suddenly, that parade of paper he’d seen trailing out of the car earlier makes a hell of a lot more sense. 

“Ah, just stuff it on back down there, will you? And you—” Dean feels a smack on his shoulder, “—take over for a bit?”

Dean turns back around just in time to see Garth swinging the driver’s side door open and sliding out into the open air, balanced precariously on the edge of the door. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Dean mutters, his gaze darting between Garth and the road ahead. He slides across the seats and grabs for the wheel, jerking them back onto the road at the last second. “Uh, Garth?” he shouts over the engine. “You okay, pal?”

But Garth doesn’t dignify him with a response, instead grabbing for a pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants. “Keep her steady, now, friend!” he shouts. Gripping the door even tighter with his free hand, he leans further out of the car, aims, and fires.

Most of the bullets miss, but it all only eggs their assailants on; they speed up, and Dean hits the gas without needing to be told. The junker of a car can only go so fast, though, and the car behind them is gaining.

“Come and get us, coppers!” Garth yells delightedly, and Dean’s eyes go wide.

“ _Cops?_ ” he repeats, chancing a look over his shoulder to see that sure enough, the vehicle gaining on ‘em is in fact a cop car. Garth’s firing again, and this time, he manages to send a bullet clean through the cop’s windshield. 

Dean cringes at the shattering of glass and the sound of Garth’s whoop as he lines up another shot. Sam doesn’t need to hear anything else; he leans forward, resting both elbows on the front seats and hissing, “Dean, pull over!”

“And go where?” Dean snaps, maneuvering the car up and over an unexpected bump before hitting the gas again. “We stop, those cops are on us like flies on shit.”

“God _damn_ it.” There’s another round of gunfire and a crash from behind them; due to what, Dean’s not sure, but he’s also got no interest in finding out.

Dean’s got half a mind to just shove Garth up and out of the car, but before he can, the man’s ducked back inside. “Appreciate the assistance, friend,” he says as he nudges Dean away and resumes his position behind the wheel. He smiles again, a wide, goofy expression that’s got no place in the middle of a shootout. “You boys get those directions in order yet?” 

The three of them white-knuckle it all the way to Eudora, and while it’s the longest trip Dean’s ever been on, the sight of civilization is almost worth it all. Garth pulls into a parking spot right in front of Eudora County Bank, and Dean releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“Let’s go, boys!” Garth shouts cheerfully, swinging the door open and scooping up another gun from under the driver’s seat. “We’re going for the record: three banks in two hours!”

“Three banks in two—” Sam’s voice trails off as the three of them stumble out of the car. Garth’s well on his way into the bank, gun held high. He also seems none the wiser that they aren’t following him, and that, well, that gives Dean an idea. He turns around to peek into the backseat and help himself to some of Garth Fitzgerald IV’s cold, hard cash.

“Dean,” Cas hisses behind him. It sounds too much like he’s about to pick an argument, and Dean doesn’t have time for that; none of them do. 

“Damn it, Cas, we’re _criminals_ and he just _left_ a sack of money in the car. No way we’re not gonna…” He spins on his heel to continue chewing Cas out for his sudden goody-two-shoes attitude when his eyes trail down to Cas’ hands—

And the bundles of cash he’s already got clenched in his fists. He catches Cas’ eyes again and can’t help but grin at the spark of pride there. A quick glance at Sam shows that he’s already followed Cas’ lead.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean says with a grin. He takes a step forward to try and grab some of the cash out of Cas’ hand, and Cas takes a step back. 

“Get your own,” he says with a smirk, and who’s Dean to say no to that?

“If you insist.” He digs his hands into the bag and scoops up a couple of handfuls. Glancing around quickly, he shoves the wads of crumpled bills down into his pockets before grabbing more.

Sam laughs, and Dean would flip him off if his hands weren’t full of cash. A damn wonderful problem to have, if you ask him. “What d’ya say, fellas?” Sam asks. “Drinks on Mr. Fitzgerald?”

They should’ve left. The second they scooped the money, they should’ve turned tail and gotten the hell outta dodge. But being in town, having even the slightest semblance of normalcy at their fingertips, had felt too good. They could spare a few hours for a drink or two and to regroup. It only made sense, to stop and get their strength up before figuring out how best to tackle the three hours left to get to Lawrence. 

They’re so close, they can almost taste it...but for now, the beer tastes better.

Getting complacent: that had been their first mistake. Dulled senses make for dull decisions; they know that, they _know_ that. It’s been ingrained in them since they were kids, since they first saw their old man making the same mistakes they were about to.

By the time the third round comes, though, Dean’s too far gone to care. They’re celebrating.

And it’s not a lie, either—they _did_ have something to celebrate. It’s not every day men escape prison, a batshit crazy cousin, _and_ some happy-go-lucky bank robber, and some way, somehow, they’d managed to pull off all three.

As far as Dean’s concerned, they all deserve goddamn statues, but a few rounds will have to do.

Balancing their fourth rounds in his hands, Sam heads back to their table and sets them carefully on the tabletop. Once he’s grabbed his seat, he shoves his hair out of his face and grins at them.

“Gentlemen,” he says, drumming lightly on the table with open palms, “fuck prohibition.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dean says, raising his glass in a toast that Sam and Cas reciprocate. Their glasses clink together and they waste no time knocking their drinks back. Dean doesn’t stop until the thing is nearly three-quarters drained.

“All right,” Sam says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before pushing his chair back. “We gotta at least _pretend_ like we’re making plans here. ‘m gonna see if I can get my hands on a map, or at least some decent directions from the barkeep.”

Cas watches Sam head back to the bar, then turns to Dean. “Should we help him?”

Dean knows Cas is concerned. Hell, he knows _he_ should be too, but Cas—Cas and his alcohol-flushed cheeks and gummy smile that shows up just a little more freely now—is what he’s really focused on, and he can’t bring himself to care about much else, including their plans for getting out of here.

Dean shakes his head with a chuckle. “You,” he answers, leaning forward heavily on an elbow, resting his head in his hand, “gotta stop.”

“Stop what?”

Dean scoffs, fumbling for the right words as he gestures vaguely at him. “Looking like that. All dapper and fancy,” he says, but only because _the man of my dreams_ is probably too strong of a come-on.

Cas looks at him flatly, and for a split second, Dean’s hit with a pang of horror as he wonders if maybe he’s been reading this all wrong, that Cas is straight as they come and Dean’s made a massive fool of himself. Cas finally opens his mouth, apparently deciding to put Dean out of his misery, and Dean braces himself for whatever’s to come. “Dean,” he says seriously, “I haven’t showered in three days.”

Someone laughs _loud_ at that; it takes a second for Dean to realize that the noise is actually coming from himself. Before his alcohol-soaked brain can snap him out of it, he rests his free hand against Cas’ cheek before shoving it fondly—and gently, gently; the last thing he wants to do is hurt someone as beautiful as Cas. The feeling of the days-old stubble under Dean’s palm feels _good_ , rough and electric and new, and if they weren’t in public, Dean’s sure he’d be pressing his lips up against it too. As it is, though, he watches as Cas’ cheeks color even more as he blushes. “It’s a good look for you,” he says quietly, taking his time looking Cas up and down.

Cas wets his lips, just barely, before hazarding a glance down at Dean’s. It’s not a conscious decision, but Dean can feel himself lean closer over the table. He’s got his eyes fixed on Cas’, smiling in spite of himself when he feels Cas’ fingers ghost across his own on the tabletop.

He smells like all Dean’s favorite things, like whiskey and campfires and _Cas_. Dean parts his lips and is just about to close his eyes, letting himself melt into the wet heat of Cas’ whiskey-soaked breath, when he hears his own voice. Not talking, but singing.

And he may be a _little_ out of it, sure, but there’s no way in hell he’s fucking _singing_ right now.

Cas looks just as confused, and Dean gives himself a few seconds to mourn the lost moment as he pulls away, trying to make sense of what the hell’s going on. He doesn’t want to, but when he finally forces himself to look away from Cas, he spots a radio on the corner of the bar, and if Dean had to wager a guess, he’d say it’s tuned to Charlie Bradbury’s little middle-of-nowhere station.

Somehow, some way, people know them. Well, not _them_ , exactly, but they know their song. And if the drunken singalongs and spectacularly bad dance moves are any indication, they actually _like_ them. 

It’s probably just the alcohol, but Dean swears he can see something akin to disappointment in Cas’ eyes as the moment fades away. He covers it up right quick, though, and taps a finger against the top of Dean’s hand. “If I didn’t know any better,” he says, “I’d say we have fans.”

Dean barks out a laugh at that. “Yeah, wonder if it’ll get us a discount here.” He tilts his head back and downs the rest of his drink fast and quick, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth clean. And hell, this ain’t the time nor the place Dean wants for their first real kiss anyway, but he’ll be damned if he lets it ruin their night.

He beckons for Cas to get closer, leaning forward himself until he’s inches away from Cas’ ear. “Let’s give ‘em a show, huh?” Without waiting for a response, he brushes his lips against the bolt of Cas’ jaw before swinging himself around to Cas’ side of the table. He throws one arm across his shoulders and the other high in the air.

“Dean, I don’t know—”

But Dean barely hears him, singing loud and raucous and probably more off-key than he’d intended but this is _their_ song, goddamn it, and he’ll sing it any way he damn well pleases. They’re right in the meat of the song, about halfway through, and Dean kicks up the volume.

 _“_ It’s fare thee well, my old true lover _—_ ” he’s not entirely sure, but he thinks he may’ve pulled Cas close, judging by the way the man goes stiff under his arm, “—I never expect to see you again. For I’m bound to ride that northern railroad—” _C’mon, Cas, c’mon, don’t let me down here_ , “—perhaps I’ll die upon this train.”

Dean’s heart soars when he hears Cas belt out, “Perhaps he’ll die upon this train.” He can feel the rumble of his voice low in his chest, and he laughs, pulling Cas even closer before stumbling into the next verse. No one appears to mind the gaffe, though, and Dean revels in the way Cas leans into him, warm and heavy and familiar as they finish up the song together. 

The bar erupts in folks cheering and applauding, and when Dean turns to look at Cas again, it’s like he’s looking into sunshine personified. Not the sun, though—not the sun, because Dean can’t imagine looking away. The way Cas’ eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs, that gummy smile of his back in full force.

 _Keep doing that_ , Dean pleads to himself. _Keep smiling like that._

He wishes he’d said it aloud, but there’s still not enough drink in his system for that; not even close. Instead, he claps Cas on the back and drops back into his seat as the crowd starts to wander back to whatever had been previously holding their interests.

“Like I said,” he says quietly. “Hell of a voice on you, Novak.”

Cas smiles, and Dean tries to hide the pang of disappointment at the fact that he’s retreated back to using his usual closed-mouthed smile. “I could say the same, Winchester.”

Someone had refilled their drinks while they were gone. It’s stupid, not knowing what’s in it, but ask Dean if he cares. He holds up his glass once more and waits for Cas’ to clink against his before taking another long pull. “Bet Sammy’ll be pissed he missed that,” Dean says with a smirk, knowing that, truthfully, it’s probably the exact opposite. He hits his open palm on the tabletop and gets to his feet. “Gonna hit the head. I‘ll be back.”

As he goes, he nods absently at folks who give him a pat on the back or an appreciative wave for the spectacle he and Cas had just put on. His mind is a hazy mess of Cas—Cas’ lips, his jaw, his stubble, his laugh, his _face_ —and Dean wants to drown himself in it. 

Dean reemerges from the bathroom with an empty bladder and a plan to show Cas exactly how much he likes him, how glad he’s been—since day one, if he’s being completely honest with himself—that they’d ended up stuck together. It involves more kissing than lovesick confessions—at least for now—but it’s a clear plan, and Dean’s ready.

He’s got it all planned out, but his mind goes blank when he returns to an empty table. Cas is nowhere to be seen. His beer is still sitting on the table, undisturbed, and the seed of anxiety buried deep in Dean’s chest starts to grow as his mind kicks back up again. He scans the room quickly, trying to find his messy-haired angel somewhere in the crowded din of the saloon, but there’s nothing.

He’s got his back to the table when he hears a familiar voice coming from behind him.

“All right,” Sam says as he approaches the table, studying a paper in his hands. “According to the barkeep, if we keep a steady trail north, we’ll make it to—”

Dean spins on his heel and jabs a finger into Sam’s chest. “Where’s Cas?”

Sam swats his hand away with a glare, but his brows knit together as he takes in Dean’s stance and words, apparently realizing that Dean’s not joking around. “What do you mean, where is he? He was with you.”

“Yeah, well, he sure as shit ain’t here now, is he?” Dean sounds pissed, and he is, but he’s also scared, something that’s been drilled into him as awful, weak, the worst thing you can be. And he’ll be damned if he lets his little brother see him that way. 

Sam purses his lips, unmoving for a few seconds. Decision finally made, he shoves a crumpled piece of paper—probably directions of some sort—into his back pocket and starts ushering Dean toward the door.

“What the hell—”

“We need to leave.”

“Like hell we’re leaving without him,” Dean snaps, trying to pull away from Sam’s grip. Heart hammering in his chest, he’s about to tap another one of the patrons on the shoulder to see if they’d noticed anything when Sam grips his bicep hard and spins him around to face him.

“I ain’t abandoning him, but we need to figure this out somewhere else.”

“Someone took him,” Dean says urgently, his mind refusing to even consider the other option—that Cas had indeed decided to leave them after all—as a possibility. “We need to—”

“If someone took him,” Sam says, his voice low and enough to get Dean to go still with its urgency, “then what do you think the chances are that they’ll be back for us next? The three of us are a package deal.”

Dean hates that Sam’s right, but he hates that Cas is missing, in danger, even more. _Your fault_ , his mind supplies helpfully. _If you hadn’t left him…_

“If I hadn’t left him,” Dean parrots, hoping to god he doesn’t sound as helpless as he feels. Judging by the look on Sam’s face, which has gone from authoritative to soft and hesitant, though, that whole effort’s been a resounding failure. 

“C’mon,” Sam says, squeezing Dean’s arm once more as he starts to lead them out of the saloon. “We won’t go far, but we can’t be here.”

Taking one last look at the empty table over his shoulder, Dean steels himself and follows his little brother outside.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself if he’d slept that night, so it’s almost a relief for him to still be awake, staring up into the slowly brightening sky as morning comes. It’s beautiful, he’s gotta admit: a streaking palette of pastel swirls and warmth that reminds him of the color in Cas’ cheeks. He can feel his heartbeat pick up under his hands folded over his chest, and he sighs, unfolding them and scrubbing them down his face.

“Sam,” he mumbles. When there’s no response, he peeks through his fingers to see his brother still sleeping soundly a few feet away. He’s alone. He’s lost. Unsure of how—or even if—he should proceed. The tightness in his chest is back, and he can’t do this right now. Getting stiffly to his feet, he steps around Sam and heads toward water.

“How long you been up?”

Dean barely even reacts to Sam’s presence, opting instead for a one-shouldered shrug, and even that’s pushing it. “Long enough.” He feels more than sees Sam sit down next to him. They sit in silence for a few moments until Dean looks over at him. “I left him. I let this happen.”

He knows Sam’s hand on his shoulder is supposed to be reassuring, but he’s squirming away from it within seconds. “You know that’s not true.”

“Don’t gimme that,” Dean snaps. “I left him vulnerable, I should’ve—”

“He’s a grown man!” Sam practically shouts. He runs his hands through his hair before continuing, his tone more level this time. “And besides. I know you’re set on him not having left of his own volition, but...we gotta consider alternatives too.”

Dean turns his whole body to face him at that. “Alternatives?” he repeats. “What the hell do you mean, alternatives?”

Dean knows what he’s getting at, knows what he’s gonna say, but so far, he’s refused to let that even be a possibility in his own head. Every passing second that Sam’s quiet has Dean dreading his answer even more. “What if he had just had enough? We did lie to him, strung him along on this stupid adventure. And the last time he tried to leave, you near knocked him out.”

Dean’s lack of an answer is one enough, and Sam continues, “I’m not saying we won’t look. ‘Course we’ll look. But...we’re so close, Dean. Just a few hours outside Lawrence, a few hours away from everything we’ve been waiting for.”

“Then we’ll wait longer.”

He leans back on the heels of his hands, staring resolutely out at the water in front of them. Had there been a point or five Cas would’ve done something like this in the past? Hell yeah, but that was before. Before the looks and smiles and brushes of what could’ve been—what could still be, as long as Dean keeps going. 

“Cas wouldn’t do it,” Dean says simply. 

“How do you know?”

“Trust me, Sammy.” He gets to his feet, brushing the dirt off his pants before lending a hand to Sam. “Wherever he is, Cas wants to be found. And we’re getting him back.”

To Sam’s credit, he leans into the process. It only takes him until mid-afternoon to put together a game plan of his own, which he and Dean pore over in a roadside cafe a mile or two outside Eudora, just far enough to give them some breathing room and a shred of anonymity while still being in the vicinity of Cas’ last whereabouts.

“It’s tough,” Sam says, drumming his fingers on the paper. ”There weren’t any signs of a fight. Nobody kicked up a ruckus; hell, his beer was still there. I dunno, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head, ruling out whatever bullshit reasoning his brother’s planning on dishing out before it leaves his mouth. “Pistol to the back of the spine,” he says, spinning the paper around so that it’s facing him. Doesn’t make much difference, though—Sam’s chickenscratch is damn near illegible no matter which way you view it. “Subtle and efficient as hell.”

Sam’s got his disapproving face on, Dean can tell, but he’ll be damned if he gives that look the time of day. “Okay,” he finally says. “Say that’s true. That means we’ve gotta track him, figure out where he was taken.”

“How far’s the closest jail?”

And this time, Dean can’t ignore Sam’s look because he pairs it with a harsh smack to Dean’s shoulder. “No.”

“I’m not sayin’ we _go_ there…”

“Then what _are_ you saying? How else are we supposed to find out if he's in jail without putting ourselves at risk? We don’t know he’s even there.”

 _That doesn’t matter_ , Dean wants to say. _We gotta start somewhere_ , he wants to say. He wants to say a lot of things, but before he can even open his mouth, someone clears their throat behind them.

He and Sam turn around simultaneously to see an older, portly fella standing near their table. He’s smiling, but something about the way he looks at the two of them makes Dean feel like a butterfly pinned to a board.

“Can we help you?” he asks, voice coming out harsher than he’d intended.

“Absolutely not,” the man says in a British accent. He chuckles, like Dean’s just suggested the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. “But I’m almost certain that _I_ can help _you_.”

Sam regards him cautiously, but Dean doesn’t miss the curiosity in his tone when he asks, “How do you figure?”

“We’ll get to that. But first, Fergus Crowley,” he says, sticking out a pudgy hand, and Dean’s half-convinced the man’s got more rings than he does fingers. 

“And?” Dean asks disinterestedly.

“ _And_ I couldn’t help but overhear that you gentlemen are looking for someone.”

Dean looks at him flatly. “Don’t see why that concerns you.”

The man shoots Sam a look, rolling his eyes. “Quite the charmer, isn’t he.” He doesn’t pose it as a question, but that’s fine; Dean knows he’s a charmer, and he doesn’t need some hoity-toity Brit telling him different. “As I was saying, finding folks has become a forte of mine, if you will. Among other things.” He opens his suit jacket and digs inside, eventually pulling out a small card that he slides across the table.

Dean scoops it up first and Sam leans in to read over his shoulder. It’s fancy: heavy, cream-colored cardstock with _Fergus Crowley: Private Investigator_ printed in raised cursive that Dean can’t help but run his thumb over. Dean’s got half a mind to tell him it’d make for good kindling, but he’s also still got _find Cas find Cas find Cas_ running on repeat in his head, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“We appreciate it, Mr. Crowley,” Sam begins.

The man waves his hand. “Crowley’ll do just fine.”

“But we don’t have the money for that,” Dean finishes, pushing the card back toward him. Before it gets all the way there, though, Crowley stops it with his own finger.

He smirks at Dean. “Consider it a...charity case.”

There’s no question: this man’s smarmy and gross and has been rubbing Dean the wrong way since the second he showed up...but Dean’s desperate and sad and willing to ignore all that for a shot, just a shot, at getting Cas back. And if this uppity asshole’s the way to do that, well then Dean’ll just have to grin and bear it.

He sighs resignedly. “Name your terms.”

“Already named them, boy. Keep up,” he says briskly, snapping his fingers. “Now why don’t we get that food wrapped up for you and we can take this somewhere more private?”

Dean regards him suspiciously. He and Sam are silent for a few seconds, then Dean makes an executive decision. Keeping his eyes on Crowley, he grabs his sandwich and takes a bite, then uses his foot to kick out the chair next to him. “Plenty of space for you right here, friend.”

Crowley scoffs. “I don’t do business deals in these conditions.”

“Then I guess you don’t do business deals with us.” Dean grins around his mouthful of food at the peeved sigh Crowley lets out. 

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” he says, like he actually gives a shit what happens right now.

“Yeah, well—”

Before Dean can finish his sentence, he notices Crowley’s eyes dart over in Sam’s direction, and he gives someone a nearly imperceptible nod. 

It all happens pretty quick after that. Sam goes stick-straight a split second before Dean notices the tall, lanky fella in an equally dapper suit who’s undoubtedly got a pistol of some kind on his little brother. Dean’s already poised to jump out of his chair and wring Crowley’s goddamn neck when he feels the cold barrel of a pistol pressed hard against his spine.

“Down, boy,” Crowley says, amused. Dean’s fists clench at his sides as he watches Crowley reach over his shoulder, tear off a piece of his sandwich, and pop it into his mouth. “Little dry,” he says disappointedly before adding, “Now, let’s try this again, shall we?”

“Gun to the spine,” Dean murmurs, stumbling a little when Crowley jabs the gun deeper into his back as they’re forced outside and shoved into the backseat of a waiting car. “What’d I tell you.”

“You want a medal?” Sam asks through gritted teeth. “Bigger fish, Dean.”

Bigger fish, indeed—Dean gets that as the goon who had a gun on Sam drives them out into god-knows-where while Crowley leers at them from the front seat, casually aiming the gun back and forth between the both of them.

“What do you want?” Sam finally asks. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow and rests his chin on his fist, keeping the gun trained on Dean while he considers Sam. “What do I want,” he repeats. “Where’s the fun in sharing that so soon in the game?”

“Listen, pal, if you’re gonna off us, I’d rather you skip the soapbox and just pull the trigger right fucking n—”

“I will if you’re not careful,” he says coolly, stopping Dean in his tracks. Dean can hear Sam in his head— _cut it out, calm down before you get us both killed, you goddamn hothead_ —and he decides to listen. Not worth fighting it.

The car bounces down a particularly bumpy patch of road before pulling to a stop just short of a grassy field, an enormous tree planted smack dab in the middle. Crowley and his lackey usher them out of the car and lead them a few yards away—probably to avoid getting their blood on the car, Dean realizes morosely. And what a shame that’d be, dirtying such a nice car. It almost makes him angrier than the fact that he and Sam are effectively facing their deaths, and that Dean won’t just die; he’ll be leaving Cas to do so as well.

And frankly, he’s not sure which one is worse.

“All right, boys,” Crowley says, twirling his pistol clumsily—Dean would laugh if circumstances were different—before sliding it into the back of his pants. “Pony up.”

They stare at him, waiting for the punchline. “Uh...pardon?” Sam asks.

“The money. I know you two have got more than your dreadful clothes and days-old stubble would make one believe.”

 _How the hell does he know?_ Dean thinks to himself. He’s scrambling to come up with some other smartass response when Sam beats him to it. “Got the wrong boys, sir,” he says, ever polite even at gunpoint. Dean rolls his eyes; maybe he’d done _too_ good a job of raising that kid. “Nothing but the clothes on our backs.”

 _Atta boy, Sammy_. “Yeah, we don’t— _fuck_!” Dean’s cut off by a quick barrage of gunfire at his feet that has him dancing closer to Sam.

“Don’t test me,” Crowley says pleasantly. He blows away the smoke twirling out of the pistol’s barrel before aiming square for Dean’s knee. “This isn’t my first rodeo. Cash. Now.”

The wads of cash are sitting heavy in Dean’s pockets, and he chews on his lower lip. He knows Sam’s looking to follow his lead this time, and with two guns on them in the middle of nowhere, even in his most optimistic state, Dean’s not thrilled with their odds. He sighs and starts digging into his pockets, taking one last second to feel the weight of all that cash in his hands before tossing them out onto the grass.

Sam does the same, disappointed but not surprised, and Crowley tilts his chin up toward the pile of cash, gesturing for his goon to pick it up. Dean watches, eyes flicking between Crowley and their cash being stuffed into a small leather bag that’s then deposited at Crowley’s feet.

“How’d you know?” Dean finally asks through gritted teeth, watching as Crowley digs into the bag and starts counting their money.

“What?” he asks without looking up. “What gave away the fact that you two numbskulls were rolling in money you had no idea what to do with? Other than the shabby clothes and mannerisms of Neanderthals, all packaged up in a cafe that looks like it wouldn’t even hire you as dishwashers?”

Dean’s silent at that, and Crowley smiles, a gross, slimy grimace that’s got Dean throttling him six ways from Sunday in his head. “Nothing personal, of course.”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam mutters.

“It’s all about the money, boys,” Crowley continues, looking for all things like the cat who ate the canary as he preens over their cash once more. He flicks through the stack with his thumb for what feels like the tenth time before shoving it all into his suit pocket along with his horseshit business cards. “All of it.”

Dean’s got another retort on the tip of his tongue, but before he can get it out, Crowley’s got his pistol out and, quick as a flash, points and shoots. His lackey drops to the ground in a heap, and both Sam and Dean zero in on his lifeless body.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes.

Crowley smiles, clearly pleased with himself as he polishes the pistol against his pant leg. “Like I said, nothing personal. Anyway, it’s been a pleasure doing business, gentlemen.” He ambles back to the car as he talks and hops in, never taking his eyes—or his gun—off them. “Do keep in touch.”

He waves at them, that smug, smarmy smile back in place. Then, in a cloud of dust and exhaust, he’s off back down the road, leaving the two of them high and dry.

They’re silent for a few seconds, staring after the car, when Dean finally speaks. “Hope he uses some of that to buy some better business cards.”

“Or a better suit.”

Dean huffs out a laugh; it’s all he can do. He looks up at the sky and sees blue. Cas’ blue. “Cas would’ve noticed something was off about him,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “He would’ve.”

The admission’s simple, but something about it has Dean’s heart clenching in his chest. It passes soon enough, though, replaced by the realization that while they may be penniless again, they’ve still got their heads, and really, ain’t that all they need to find Cas?

Stretching his arms up high before threading his fingers together behind his head, elbows out, Dean ambles over to the body on the ground. Sam’s already been there for a moment or two, crouched down beside it. Dean watches as he reaches a hand out and closes the man’s eyes, frozen in shock for eternity. It’s an odd thing, to see his brother treating someone who’d damn near killed them with such humanity, but Dean can’t help the sense of pride he feels blossoming in his chest.

He turns back toward the road, waits until he feels Sam’s presence at his side before speaking. “So,” he says, using his hand to shade his eyes, “back to square one, Sammy. No money, no car.” _No Cas_ , his mind adds. “What’s next?”

Sam shrugs, kicking at a pebble. His answer, when he finally does give one, is simple. “We walk.”

Sam’s right: they walk, and they keep walking until it’s too dark to see more than a few feet in front of their faces. It feels like the days when they were fresh out of prison, fumbling their way through country back roads and trying to find the next place to, well, survive.

Dean figures it’s the same now, really, only this time, the treasure they’re seeking’s got a kind smile and kinder eyes that Dean’s desperate to see again. Maybe that woman on the handcar had been right.

“We’ll regroup tomorrow,” Sam says, one arm tucked behind his head as he gazes up at the stars. “All right?”

“Yeah.” Dean nods and rests his feet flat on the forest floor so his knees are sticking up. “Yeah. Okay. Tomorrow.” He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before forcing them open again and blinking a few times. “Night, Sammy.”

_The crowd is what Dean notices first._

_The bandstand is next. The white latticework and stone decorations and well-tended flowers—it’s the same one Sam had been planning on proposing to Jessica in. There’s something going on, some kind of commotion, and against his better judgement, Dean’s gotta know what’s happening._

_“Pardon, ‘scuse me, sorry, much obliged…” He maneuvers his way through the crowd of people, his breath catching in his throat when he finally sees what the hell’s going on._

_Cas is on his knees in the middle of the bandstand with his hands bound behind him. He’s back in his prison black-and-whites, looking worse for wear. His eyes speak of resigned exhaustion, his shoulders slumped, and Dean can’t breathe. His hands tremble at his sides, mouth dry and eyes prickling with tears fighting hard to roll free._

_And there, standing directly behind Cas, is Heyerdahl—goddamn bastard Heyerdahl—loading a single bullet into a pistol._

_“Cas.”_

_This time, Cas looks up, making eye contact with Dean and only Dean. Dean stares at him, trying and failing to come up with something,_ anything _to say, but nothing’s coming. Cas keeps looking at him, eyes unblinking._ This is your fault _._

_“No,” Dean breathes. “Cas, no, I don’t—”_

_Dean tangles his hands in his hair, unable to move, speak, breathe as the sheriff ties a cloth over Cas’ eyes, cutting off Cas’ gaze in one fell swoop. Cinching the cloth tight around his head, the sheriff pulls out a scrap of paper, his mouth forming words that Dean realizes with sinking certainty are Cas’ last rites._

_“No,” he whispers again, his breath coming quick now, panicked. “Cas, no—”_

_He wants to look away, but even just blinking is a Herculean task, and Dean finds himself unable to do either. The sheriff asks Cas if he has any last words, and Dean’s throat goes dry when Cas doesn’t respond. Dean’s chest is heaving; he knows people are moving around him, but he can’t move, can’t look away. Someone’s saying something else, Heyerdahl’s gripping his pistol tight, that sickening grin on his face as he flicks the safety off and presses the muzzle of the gun against the back of Cas’ skull. An ear-piercing ringing starts echoing around them, the sheriff steps away—_

“Cas!”

Dean scrambles awake, tangling himself in the sticks and other brush of the forest floor. His eyes dart around wildly, searching for Cas, for Heyerdahl, for a pistol, for _anything_ , but all that’s there is woods and Sam’s sleeping form a few feet away. 

He sighs, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes as he tries to pull himself together. _Just a dream_ , he thinks to himself. _Just a dream, nothin’ more. You’ll find Cas. You’ll find Cas_ safe _._

He takes a few deep breaths and squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to ground himself. The ground’s not comfortable on the best days, but now it feels like each and every stick is making a point to prod into his back. He forces himself to keep his eyes closed and get back to something even close to resembling sleep.

He’s just about to nod off when another thought hits him like a freight train.

_But what if you don’t?_

“So, uh, how’d you sleep?” From the way Sam’s talking, he knows damn well how he slept, and Dean ain’t gonna give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud.

“Fine.”

Sam’s quiet enough that Dean almost convinces himself he’s going to drop it. 

“We’ll find him, Dean.”

Dean ran out of words other than those that blame himself in some way, shape, or form a while ago. Sam’s sick to death of hearing those, anyway, and Dean isn’t in the mood to be yelled at, so he just grunts in response.

The sun beats down as they walk, trying to trace the road the way they came, back to Eudora, until they manage to hop a ride on a passing stake bed truck making its way back to town. They nestle themselves between the hay bales loaded up in the back, the driver none the wiser.

His legs dangling down off the edge of the truck bed, Dean stares down at the road moving slowly under his feet. It’s a whole lot of nothing around them, just fields and corn and wheat as far as the eye can see, the world looking just as blank as Dean feels. Sam’s talking about something, some part of their plans and what steps to take next, but Dean can’t comprehend any of it.

“Hey,” Sam says suddenly, elbowing Dean in the ribs. “Watch it.”

The faint drone of men singing starts to float into Dean’s consciousness before he can respond. He’d recognize it anywhere; he and Sam had been singing the same songs while out working just a few days ago, and Dean swallows past the stab of guilt in his chest as the beginnings of another chain gang start to come into view.

He keeps his head down, fingers laced together behind his head so that his elbows are jutting out for some extra protection, while Sam leans back against the hay, feigning sleep.

Dean feels for them, the poor bastards. It’s only been a few days since he was last in their shoes, but it’s already something he hopes never to have to repeat. The warden’s weaving between them, high up on a horse that looks damn near ready to buck him off. As much a force of habit it is to watch the goings-on, he only decides it’s safe for a quick look once they’ve passed, with Sam doing the same.

One fella stuck at the tail end of a group brings his axe down on a block with a sense of care that’s oddly familiar to Dean, before straightening up to stretch and look toward the passing truck. He runs a hand through a shock of messy, dark hair. That’s when it all clicks into place—the hair, the mannerisms, the form—and Dean doesn’t even need to see the man’s eyes to know who he’s looking at.

The jolt that goes through Dean is near strong enough to knock him right off the truck. He grips the edge tight to try and ground himself, convince himself that the heat’s getting to him, but the further away they get, the surer he is of what he saw.

“Did you...” Dean trails off, looking helplessly over at Sam, who’s still save for a disbelieving blink. “Was that—”

Sam nods. “Sure was.”

This time, Dean’s grip tightens to stop himself from throwing himself off the back of the truck and taking them all on right then and there to get Cas out. Sam must’ve known he’d be liable to do the same thing, because he feels the weight of his hand on his shoulder. 

“How many prisons are around here?” Dean murmurs, not taking his eyes off the working men who have become dots in the distance.

“We can find out.”

They _will_ find out. They will, because they fucking found him. The Kansas penal system works fast, faster than Dean remembered, but it doesn’t matter, because come tonight, come hell or high water, Sam and Dean Winchester are getting Castiel Novak out.


	9. Chapter 9

Once they’d managed to get themselves out of Joliet, Dean had had plans to never set foot on the grounds of another jail for the rest of his life, so help him god. But god, he should know by now, has no interest in helping the Winchesters, something that’s made itself clearer than ever as he and Sam dart through the shadows, making their way up to Rolling Hills County Pen.

It’s a small place, smaller than the name would have you believe, with the only rolling hill being the one leading up to the compound. The weather’s on their side, the sky cloudy, a cold mist in the air getting steadier as the minutes tick by.

The bolt cutters they’d managed to swipe from a nearby farm—what can Dean say, old habits die hard—weigh heavy where they’re tucked into the back of his pants. He swallows down the disgust that worms its way up into his throat at the idea of having to use them for anything other than cutting Cas free, but he’s prepared to. They’ve—no, _he’s_ —gotta get Cas back. 

The fence surrounding the pen is topped with coils of barbed wire, shiny and threatening in the mist. Dean cranes his neck to look up at them and stays rooted to the spot until he feels Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

“We gotta keep going,” he says, voice quiet and gentle, betraying the threatening, mammoth persona that comes along with his massive frame.

Dean licks his lips unconsciously, swallows. “Yeah,” he says with a tight nod, “yeah, okay.”

A quick scan of the fence shows there aren’t any weak spots for him to take advantage of, so he settles on a spot nestled deep in the shadows, far away from the warden’s spotlight cutting every so often through the night. Dean ignores the mud soaking into his pants when he drops to his knees and starts fiddling with the chain link along the perimeter of the grounds. He’s careful as he works, snipping at the metal with the bolt cutters as quietly as he can, but the twang as the metal snaps still sounds deafening in his ears, echoing through the night.

Rain’s coming down harder now, and the metal goes slick with it under Dean’s fingers. Before he knows it, he’s almost lost his grip when he can’t afford to lose even a second. “C’mon, you son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath. He realigns the bolt cutters and snips through two links at once to try and get his rhythm back.

“Hurry up, Dean,” Sam hisses urgently.

“What d’you think I’m doing?” Dean wipes his palms on his already damp shirt before cutting through the last few links. Pulling himself up into a crouch, he’s careful not to cut himself as he pulls the loose fence back and holds it open for Sam to crawl through.

“After you, your highness,” he says, throwing his arm out to the side like he’s welcoming Sam into a goddamn palace straight out of a fairytale. Sam rolls his eyes but ducks under the fence anyway, then holds the links back from the other side for Dean to follow.

It’s a straight shot to the only building on the grounds, a hulking, faded old thing that somehow still manages to stand strong and intimidating in the night. As easy as it would be to dart straight across, it’s too risky for them to be out in the open, so they stick to the perimeter. Before they can get too far, though, the beam of a flashlight swipes across the grass, and he’s gotta practically hop up into Sam’s arms to avoid getting caught in its beam.

He and Sam press themselves back up against the fence, and Dean takes a second to try and compose himself, scrubbing a hand down over his face. “Shit,” he murmurs, watching as two men—guards, they had to be guards, no one else would be out this late—wander around the grounds, casual as anything. They’re getting close, too close for Dean’s liking, and he takes a breath while trying to concoct the next step of this sorry, half-assed excuse for a plan.

“Okay, Sam, we gotta—” He cuts himself off when he sees Sam dart toward the guards. “Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean breathes, wondering where the hell his idiot brother’s head is at before following his lead.

Sam’s coiled his lanky, sprawling self up down low, and Dean’s almost as stunned as the guards when he launches at one of the guy’s legs, sending him toppling to the ground with a shout. Sam overpowers him, looping an arm around his neck and squeezing until the guard goes limp in his arms. That leaves the second guard to Dean, who puts up a bit of a fight that Dean’s quick to snuff out with a few well-placed punches and the pair of bolt cutters pressed up under his chin for good measure.

“Warn a guy, huh?” Dean huffs out, glaring at Sam before turning his attention back to the guard he’s got pinned.

He can’t be much older than Sam, and Dean tries to ignore the wave of guilt in his heart at the fear in his eyes and the way he’s gone stiff under Dean’s hands. His eyes are wide and unblinking even as the rain continues to fall, his hands up near his head in surrender. “Please,” he stammers, eyes glancing just once over to his unconscious friend in Sam’s arms, “please d—”

“Shhh,” Dean murmurs, a perfect semblance of calm as he eases the bolt cutters more firmly against the kid’s throat. He glances down at the hunk of metal in his hands, then his eyes flick back up to the guard. “You got keys?”

The kid never takes his eyes off Dean as he palms around for his keyring. He tears it from his belt loop and holds it up for Dean with shaking fingers. Dean almost feels bad—almost, but then he pictures the way Cas had looked at him back in the bar, the way he’d looked when they’d passed him on the road, the way Dean’s carved out a spot for Cas deep inside his mind, his heart, a spot he can try to downplay all he wants, but one he knows no one else can even come close to filling.

“Thanks,” he says, flashing the kid a quick, apologetic smile before throwing a punch that has him going limp and boneless in the grass. Tucking the keys into his back pocket, Dean kneels down next to the kid’s unconscious form, rubbing the fabric of his collar between his fingers, then looks back up at Sam. “What size are you?”

“I hate you,” Sam hisses, tugging awkwardly at his too-short shirt as they sneak through the grounds. Grabbing the shirts and caps to wear over their own clothes had been a last-minute idea, sure, but Dean feels more hidden wearing the damn things, despite Sam’s bellyaching to the contrary. “So much.”

Dean waves him off, testing what’s gotta be the ninth or tenth key in the lock to get them into the pen. Tenth time’s the charm, apparently, because the key finally turns in the lock with a satisfying _click_ , and Dean shoves it open with his shoulder, following the beam of the flashlight Sam had snagged.

He squeezes his eyes shut as they make their way inside, the echoing halls and darkened cells sending an unconscious shiver up his spine. It’s too much like Joliet, too much like where he’d just been a few short days ago— _feels like weeks_ , he realizes suddenly—too much like where he’d sworn to himself he’d never end up again.

“Home sweet home,” he murmurs. 

They make quick work of scouring the first few rows of cells, ignoring the protests and cusses of inmates they inadvertently wake with the beam of the flashlight. Hell, Sam almost fucking _apologizes_ , and if anything would’ve blown their cover, it’d’ve been some semblance of basic goddamn _empathy_ coming from two numbskulls who’re supposed to be passing themselves off as prison guards. 

“Think you can stop being a good person for two minutes?” Dean mutters, grabbing the flashlight away from Sam as they head deeper into the pen. “Two minutes ain’t too much to ask, is it?”

It’s dark, but Dean can still see the eyeroll Sam throws his way. “It’s common courtesy.”

“You think I don’t know that? It is, and they deserve it, but you really think prison guards’re gonna be the ones to dish it out? You think _Heyerdahl_ ’d be throwing apologies out there like they grow on trees?” He shines the flashlight into the next cell—no luck—before preparing for the next one. “I’ll tell ya right now, no goddamn way he—ah, shit.”

A quick sweep across the next cell doesn’t reveal much, but just as Dean’s about to move on, the beam catches a flash of brilliant blue eyes gazing blankly out into the main corridor from the bottom bunk, and Dean’s heart seizes in his chest. 

Cas is lying on his side, facing right into the light. He squints a bit, but doesn’t move otherwise. Dean’s frozen in place, only spurred into action when Sam takes the flashlight back and knocks his hand against the keys in Dean’s other hand.

 _Right, right_. Fumbling with the keys until he finds the right one, he clears his throat. “Novak,” he says sharply, careful to keep his gaze low and his voice lower as he unlocks the cell door. “Up and at ‘em.”

Cas starts just a little at being addressed, but gets to his feet without any sort of preamble. Dean’s struck by his reaction, or lack thereof—that he doesn’t seem panicked or scared, just...resigned as he steps between the two of them. Accepting of whatever the hell’s coming for him—which, if this _hadn’t_ been some half-baked rescue mission, wouldn’t’ve been anything good.

Dean doesn’t like it.

He stares at Cas’ profile in the moonlight, all sad eyes and sharp angles. He watches the way Cas’ Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and for a second, Dean’s overcome with the urge to reach over and hug him. To just pull him close and breathe him in and never let him go.

Sam clears his throat, and Dean looks up. His brother’s got his hand loosely around one of Cas’ arms; Dean takes the hint and curls his fingers around Cas’ bicep. They start back toward the exit, and Dean lets his thumb brush against Cas’ arm in a gesture he hopes comes off as reassuring.

The sound of their shoes tapping on the concrete floors mixes with Cas’ steady breathing, and Dean tries to calm himself down. They won’t get caught, they’re covering their tracks, they just need to get their asses outside and back to the fence.

They’ve almost cleared the rows of cells when another door opens and closes with a clang. Dean’s grip goes tighter around Cas’ arm as he turns around and to either side of them to try and pinpoint the source of the noise, with no luck. Sam’s having no luck either, and while all Dean wants to do is break into a sprint and get themselves the hell out of here as quick as possible, he knows that’s just setting them up to land right back where they started—or worse.

“Keep it moving,” he says instead, tugging on Cas’ arm to get him to pick up the pace. Dean’s _not_ losing him again, not when they’re so close.

When they finally cross the threshold from the inside of the pen to the yard, Cas’ breath hitches. It’s barely there—so small, Dean nearly misses it—but he’s had enough pretending, and he’s not letting Cas go on panicking like this for no good goddamn reason.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean murmurs under his breath, and he grins in spite of himself when he feels Cas’ eyes on him. 

“Dean?” A pause as he turns to his other side. “Sam?”

“Let’s get you outta here, huh?”

It takes damn near a mile after they shimmy back under the fence and make a break for it for Dean’s nerves to even start to settle. 

By the time they get to what’s gotta be at least two miles away from the pen, Sam finally makes the executive decision that they’re far enough away to stop, and they break in the middle of the woods, trying to regain their breath and composure. Hands on his knees as he takes in long, deep breaths, Dean looks up to see Cas doing the same, and that’s that.

He’s not waiting. He’d waited last time, and look where that got them. No preamble, no nothing, he sheds the guard coat and closes the space between him and Cas. He takes Cas’ face in his hands, looking into those eyes for a split second before planting a kiss desperately against his lips.

 _I’m sorry_ , he hopes it says. _I’m sorry and I was so scared and I thought I’d never see you again, never get to do this, don’t you ever do this to me again, I won’t let you. You fucking incredible asshole._

Keeping his hands on Cas’ cheeks, he ends the kiss and angles their foreheads together, breathing heavy. He doesn’t dare look up into Cas’ eyes for a few seconds, but when he finally does, sparks fly in his chest at the fact that Cas is already looking at him. He reaches up and covers one of Dean’s hands with his own. He reaches behind him with his other hand, digging into his back pocket, and pulls out his kerchief once more. Careful not to break their contact, he brings it up back under Dean’s eye and rubs gently, first with the cloth, then with the pad of his thumb.

“You had something there,” he murmurs, and Dean huffs out a quick breath that’s a half-laugh, half-sob.

When he finally manages to pull himself away from Cas—still keeping his hands on him, though—he notices Sam looking at them.

“I, uh, I’ll give you two some time then, huh?” He claps Cas solidly on the back as he walks past with a genuine, “Glad to have you back, man.” His smile’s reassuring, but the knowing look he gives Dean is almost enough for Dean to pull a hand away from Cas’ cheeks to flip him off.

Almost.

“What happened?” Dean asks breathlessly once Sam’s out of earshot.

Cas shrugs, looping his arms around Dean’s neck and linking his hands together there. “I just...it was all so sudden. Almost immediately after you left, someone walked over, and I felt a gun against my back. They said something about a warrant, about knowing who I was, and I wasn’t going to fight them on it. I thought that if I went without a fight, they’d leave before finding you both.”

“Fuck, I knew it,” Dean mutters.

Cas draws back a little, brows furrowed in confusion. “You what?”

Dean shakes his head, pulling Cas back to him. “Nothin’. Nothin’. You scared me, is all.”

“I was plenty scared myself.”

“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Cas huffs out a quiet little laugh, breath hot against Dean’s skin. “Are you looking for a contest in one-upmanship, Dean Winchester?”

“‘Course not,” Dean says quietly, running a hand through the locks of hair curling around Cas’ ear before kissing him again. “Could think of a few other contests for us to try our luck in, though.”

“Is that so?”

This time, it’s Dean’s turn to laugh. He moves his hands down to Cas’ hips and pulls him close, bringing their foreheads together once more. “So, what d’ya say,” he starts, teasing at Cas’ pants, “interested in trying our luck?”

As it turns out, trying their luck was something Cas was _very_ much interested in, and soon enough, Dean finds himself back on the ground, only this time with decidedly less clothes and more Cas. And while he would’ve preferred a night in a real bed for once, he can’t complain when he’s looking up into Cas’ eyes, his hips bracketed by Cas’ thighs. Cas looms over him, strong and pale in the moonlight. Dean reaches his hands out and watches, transfixed, as their fingers entwine together before Cas gives his hands a reassuring squeeze. He wets his lips and swallows, hips rolling up just slightly against the pressure of Cas’ weight on him.

Cas leans in closer, breath ghosting over Dean’s lips as he presses Dean’s hands down on either side of his head. Dean cranes his neck up to meet him, and he closes his eyes at the veritable fireworks show kicking off low in his chest at Cas’ lips against his, Cas’ tongue warm in his mouth, Cas’ grip tightening on his hands, Cas’ dick pressing against him—all of it rolled into one.

It ends too soon, with Cas pulling away, and Dean whines low in his throat before opening his eyes. Cas is still there, looking at Dean, for all intents and purposes, like he’d hung the moon. It should make Dean uncomfortable, awkward, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t find anything short of bona fide genuinity—awe, even—in Cas’ eyes.

Which, if Dean’s being honest, almost terrifies him more.

He chuckles, and Cas looks down at him curiously. “What’s the matter?” he asks softly.

Dean shakes his head, but it still comes out before he can think twice about it. “Don’t deserve you.”

Cas blinks, taken aback, and for a second, Dean’s terrified he’s ruined it. Of course he’s ruined it, he’s always ruining it. 

“Oh, Dean,” Cas murmurs, tracing a finger over Dean’s eyebrow, down his cheek, along his jaw. Dean can’t help leaning into the touch, pressing tiny kisses along Cas’ hand. Cas ghosts his fingers over Dean’s lips, hesitant but curious, looking at Dean in a silent request for permission. Dean’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips, and he makes the decision for the both of them, arching up and wrapping his lips around one, two, then three of Cas’ fingers.

Dean watches as Cas’ eyes slide shut as he licks and sucks at the other man’s fingers, the groan that escapes his mouth enough to have Dean reaching for his own dick. Cas, though, Cas is somehow still on high alert, because he wraps his free hand around Dean’s wrist and pins it back against the ground without so much as a glance.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low and _sir, yes, sir_. Dean nods, watching as Cas pulls each of his fingers free from his mouth. He lets his head drop back down against the ground, his sigh quickly turning into a moan as Cas’ now spit-slick hand wraps around his cock. He rolls his hips up against Cas’ weight, and wants to keep his eyes open, but the bliss of pressure all around him has his eyes fluttering closed before he can stop them, his free hand curling tight into the dirt, leaves, his own hair as he moans again.

“Cas…”

“Shh,” Cas murmurs, pressing his palm firmly over Dean’s mouth. “Shh, shh, shh, shh.” For a second, Dean just revels in the pressure of Cas’ hand on his mouth, in the way he presses down harder at Dean’s halfhearted protests. Finally, Dean nods in understanding and opens his eyes just in time to see Cas shift his hand from Dean’s mouth to his cheek.

Cas nestles himself down between Dean’s thighs, hand stroking Dean’s cock. Dean _knows_ what Cas wants, but he shivers in spite of himself, unable to help the groan that escapes his lips once more as Cas presses kisses along the inside of his thighs, warm and wet and slow and still too infuriatingly far away from his cock. 

Cas looks at him with a pleased little glint in his eye, and Dean reaches up—for what, he’s not sure, maybe to grab a fistful of Cas’ hair, to drag him back up and pull him into a kiss—but before he gets too far, Cas wraps his free hand around Dean’s wrist again and pins it next to his head. He applies a bit more pressure so Dean gets the idea—keep it there—and Dean nods.

He wishes he’d nodded sooner when Cas releases his hand and scoots even further down Dean’s thighs. He’s just missing the warmth and weight of the other man on him when he feels the wet heat of Cas’ mouth around his cock.

Dean gasps as Cas swallows him down, his tongue moving soft and slow as he uses one hand to give sporadic gentle tugs to Dean’s balls while the other strokes up and down his inner thigh. Dean lets his head drop back as his eyes slide closed, hips canting slowly upwards. His hand finds Cas’ hair and he tangles his fingers in it, tightening his grip with every stroke and suck Cas graces him with.

Cas’ fingers manage to worm their way underneath his body and they grip his ass hard as he continues, spurred on by the way he’s making Dean come undone. It’s too much while simultaneously not being enough, and Dean’s blinking fast as his throat goes dry.

Their eyes lock a few seconds later and Dean thrusts up once more into Cas’ mouth at the sight of those eyes and the way Cas’ lips curl into a knowing little smile around Dean’s cock.

“‘m gonna—”

Dean groans when Cas pulls off with a wet _pop_. He’s got half a mind to spring up and tackle Cas, but before he can, Cas’ palm is on his chest, pushing him back down. Dean’s eyes follow Cas’ arm up until he sees Cas on his knees before him, shoulders heaving, his own dick hard and leaking in his hand.

“Finish,” he says, voice rough and heady, pupils clearly blown even in the darkness on all sides, and Dean can’t move fast enough. His cock is still slick from spit and precome, and his eyes flutter closed as he thrusts into his own hand.

It’d be one thing if he was only getting himself off, but the ragged breathing and quickening pace above him make it clear—Cas is close too, and Dean’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it good—the best he can—for him. Swallowing hard, he bites down on his lip and one more glimpse of Cas has him coming with a shout.

Head thrown back, he hears Cas groan once more, then startles as Cas comes over his stomach as well. Chest heaving, he keeps his eyes up on the sky as he grins to himself, shaking his head in near disbelief. He only looks down when he feels Cas cleaning him up with what he recognizes as the guard’s shirt from earlier, and laughs.

“Castiel fuckin’ Novak,” he breathes, opening his arms and pressing a kiss to the crown of Cas’ head as he crawls into his embrace. Cas smiles back up at him, and Dean takes a second to admire him up close: the crinkles around his eyes, the sharp lines of his face, the strength of his arms. Mostly though, mostly it’s the warmth in his eyes, warmth that’s crystal clear to Dean even in the middle of the night, that has him looking down at the man in wonder.

“How’d I get so lucky,” he murmurs, eyes darting across Cas’ face before kissing his forehead.

And if Dean had thought Cas’ smile was big before, well, it’s nothing compared to what he sees when he draws back from the kiss. “I could say the same.”

Dean blinks awake a few hours later to the weight of Cas’ body still pressed up against him, and he grins to himself. The sun’s starting to peek through the trees, and it’s such a different picture from the last time he’d watched the sun come up, such a one-eighty, that he can’t help but start humming the chorus of a song their ma’d always sing when he and Sam were kids, over and over and over.

“You are my sunshine,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers slow and gentle through Cas’ short hair, “my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Cas stirs under his arm, and Dean trails off, glancing down to see Cas blinking owlishly up at him. He yawns, trying and failing to hide the way the corners of his mouth quirk up in a grin. “Morning, sunshine.”

And Dean isn’t sure what he’d been expecting—sure, maybe not unbridled joy, but definitely not surprise, which is exactly what Cas is hitting him with. “You all right?”

Cas blinks, then shakes his head. “No. I mean, yes, it’s just...you’re still here.”

That has Dean’s spine going straight, any and all traces of sleep gone as he squints up at him against the dawn. “‘Course I’m still here. Why the hell would I leave?”

Cas opens his mouth, but closes it again before he says anything. He presses his lips together, and Dean waits. It’s killing him, but he waits.

“It’s nothing,” he finally says. Dean’s not convinced, but he’s also got no interest in forcing Cas to disclose anything he’s not ready to, so they sit there, Dean still playing absently with Cas’ hair, trying to ignore the way Cas is now hyper-focused on the ground.

“Folks have left before,” Cas says quietly. And Dean’s had his share of one-night stands, but something about the way Cas is talking makes him realize that this is something different. He’s got questions, and lots of ‘em, but when they enter into their third straight minute of silence, Dean decides to finish the story for Cas for now.

“Well, I for one, can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. And I hate to break it to you, but _you_ , Castiel Novak,” he says, tilting Cas’ chin up to face him, smiling softly at the way he can feel Cas leaning into him, “are pretty damn stuck with me. Fate worse than death, I know.”

Cas smiles—and not just with his lips, with that flash of teeth that Dean really needs to tell him drives him wild. “Not sure I’d say that.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Hell, even better. And just in case you need some extra convincing…” Dean leans over, punctuating each of his next few words with kisses to Cas’ lips. “Please don’t take my sunshine away.”


	10. Chapter 10

Dean had thought love stories were all talk.

He’s no stranger to lust, and may’ve even found himself smitten a time or two, but having Cas back by his side, feeling his warmth next to him, the way their fingers brush as they walk when Sam’s not looking—and even when he is, who the hell cares—it feels good and like home and right.

He rides that high the last few miles to Lawrence, which is just as Dean remembers it: a bustling city packed to the gills with folks who didn’t spare him or Sam a second glance a year ago, and show no signs of doing so now.

There must be some kind of event going on today, what with all the music playing, little ones laughing and chasing each other through the streets, and smells of fried food wafting through the air. Crowds of folks are pressing past them to get to the bandstand in the town square, and Dean’s got half a mind to follow them and try to track down a funnel cake or three when Sam steers them away from the crowds and toward the general store across the street.

“What the hell, Sammy?”

“Whatever you’re salivating over will be there in a half hour,” Sam says. “Right now we gotta focus on getting Cas some new clothes.”

As much as Dean hates to admit when his brother’s right, he knows Sam’s onto something. They’d buried Cas’ jumpsuit out in the woods, leaving him with nothing but an undershirt and a pair of plain, threadbare trousers, which, while not _entirely_ condemning, is still outlandish enough to raise an eyebrow or two. 

Word travels fast, and police even faster, so they make quick work of the store. Sam zeroes in on a stack of button-up shirts and grabs the first one that looks like it’ll fit Cas. Dean scoops up a pair of trousers and is heading to meet Sam at the counter when a tweed waistcoat catches his eye. Picturing the way Cas had wanted to look nice back at Bobby’s, how this would look against his eyes, makes the decision easy, and he tosses it on top of the trousers.

Sam stares at him when he shoves the bundle of clothes into his arms, then shakes his head. “We’re supposed to be flying under the radar,” he says. “We can’t—”

Dean shakes his head resolutely, patting the clothes in Sam’s hands. “He’ll like this,” he says. “I know how much we have left. We can swing it.”

Sam wants to argue, Dean can tell, but he glances over at Cas, who’s admiring a brass pocket watch on the other side of the store, and sighs. “You two go wait outside while I pay for these. I’ll meet you in the back.”

Dean nods and smiles at Sam, squeezing his shoulder in thanks before heading over to Cas.

“You look good,” Dean tells him, adjusting Cas’ lapels just slightly before resting his hands on his shoulders and looking him up and down. The back of the general store is dirty and muddy, the nearby alley piled high with trash, but Dean’s got tunnel vision for Cas. “Like a fine, upstanding citizen if I’ve ever seen one.”

Cas’ cheeks go just the slightest shade of pink as he looks down at himself, then back up at Dean. “Thank you.” He smooths out the waistcoat against his chest, and Dean grins. “This is...very nice.”

Dean rests his hands on Cas’ hips and kisses him. He could stay here all day, but they’ve been lollygagging long enough; it’s about time they focus on helping Sam track down Jessica. As much as he hates to do it, he pulls himself away from Cas and takes his hand as they head back to the front of the store.

“Finally,” Sam says, hopping off the wooden fence he’d been perched on when he spots them. “What the hell took you...y’know what, I don’t want to know.” He rolls his eyes at Dean’s wicked grin. Sam’s taken the time alone to reacquaint himself with downtown Lawrence, and he’s got an idea of where to find Jessica. He starts leading them down another side street across from the bandstand when a voice from behind stops them in their tracks.

“Well, well, well,” the voice says, smooth and crackling with energy. “If it ain’t the midwest’s newest golden boys.”

Dean had only heard it twice, but he’d recognize that voice anywhere, and he can’t hide the grin that comes when he turns around to confirm his suspicions. “Billie?”

The woman smirks at him, one hand on her hip, the other carrying a dusty guitar case. She’s wearing a light, flowing deep purple dress and a black leather vest with matching boots. “Long time no see, Slim.”

Dean grins at her, then Charlie, who adjusts a flat cap of her own before beaming at the three of them and going in for hugs. 

“What the hell are you two doing here?”Dean asks, patting her on the back as she wraps herself around Cas.

Before either of them can answer, though, Sam latches onto something else. “Uh, I don’t mean to be rude,” he stammers. “Happy as we are to see you again, did you just say the _midwest_? As in, not just Kansas?” 

Charlie scoffs, punching Sam in the shoulder (then trying hard to cover up the quick jolt of pain that must go through her arm at the motion). “You boys are all anyone in the music industry’s been on about for days now! Sold-out records, thinkpieces in gazettes from here to Topeka—we can’t get the phone to stop ringing with folks who have questions about who y’all are.” She pauses, then looks at the three of them suspiciously. “You mean to tell me you don’t know any of that?”

“We’ve been a little preoccupied,” Dean replies for all three of them. Charlie narrows her eyes, but decides not to dig any deeper. Instead, she claps her hands together once before dropping them to her hips.

“Well, listen. Me and Billie here have got ourselves a gig— _paid_ , mind you—that we could use a little more starpower on. Mayoral race is really heating up. You boys interested in reliving your glory days?”

Sam glances back over his shoulder to where folks are still streaming into the small auditorium. “So that’s what this whole ruckus is about.”

Charlie nods. “Sure is. So whaddaya say?” She waggles her eyebrows and smiles hopefully. “You boys help us out one last time, as thanks for us turning ya into superstars?”

Dean purses his lips as he glances and Sam and Cas. The whole reason they’re here is to find Jessica, but they could always use the cash, plus it’s getting dark... “I dunno…”

Charlie opens her mouth to protest, but before she can, Dean finishes, “how ‘bout we just help you out because we’re friends?”

Charlie beams, and sticks out her hand. “Even better.”

Dean’s beard itches.

That had been Sam’s lone caveat—for them to find some way to hide their faces—and Charlie had used her magic to drum up a couple of fake gray beards on strings. They’re long and scratchy and make Dean feel like a goddamn moron, but as idiotic as he feels, it’s still better than being thrown back in jail.

Charlie had filled them in while she’d adjusted their beards: apparently tonight’s a rally for Cain Omundson, who’s running against Lawrence’s current mayor, Zachariah Fuller. Dean, for one, is thrilled—anyone going up against that racist, homophobic schmuck gets top marks in his book. 

The five of them barrel up onto the stage and begin setting up. For Dean, that doesn’t involve much more than trying to get his bearings in front of a roomful of people. Singing in front of Charlie and Billie’s can in a tiny, one-room studio is one thing, but the dozens of folks packed in here tonight is practically enough to have Dean running for the hills. 

Omundson’s team had pulled out all the stops for this one: the space is decorated with string lights and lavish streamers as far as the eye can see. Tables and chairs covered in fancy white lace are packed in tight, foods Dean’s never seen before being cut into with cutlery that’s surely worth more than the clothes on all their backs combined.

It’s fancy, and Dean, well, Dean’s not.

He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders to try and hide how out of place he feels, nodding to an elderly couple in the front row who’ve caught his eye before turning around to face Cas. “Exciting, huh?” he asks, adjusting Cas’ hair just to give himself an excuse to touch him. “Can I get your John Hancock later?”

Cas smiles, but Dean can tell he’s nervous; he’s glancing distractedly over Dean’s shoulder into the sea of people chatting and eating and schmoozing, waiting to hear them perform. Dean follows Cas’ gaze, then turns around and rests his hands on Cas’ shoulders. He leans in close, bringing his mouth right up to Cas’ ear.

“We’ll be fine,” he says quietly. He leans just a bit further and drops a quick kiss to Cas’ temple. “We’re always fine.” He smiles, then claps Cas’ shoulder. “Let’s show these folks a good time, huh?”

The three of them take their positions in the middle of the stage in the same formation they had at Charlie’s studio: Dean in the middle, with Sam and Cas on either side. A fancy microphone is positioned in front of them, and Dean clears his throat, adjusts it so it’s closer to their height—well, closer to his and Cas’; Sam’ll just have to crouch a little.

Nobody seems particularly thrilled to see them, and that doesn’t change as Billie starts strumming her guitar. Dean supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised; compared to the acts these folks have seen, they’re probably nothing more than background noise to them. He can’t help but still feel a little indignant, though, and when he clears his throat, he makes sure to do so right in front of the mic. A couple of people in the front row glare up at him, but the rest are still too preoccupied with the rest of the evening to give any of them a second thought.

That is, until Sam and Cas start to harmonize. “ _In constant sorrow all through his days_.”

Suddenly, the room erupts in a cacophony of claps and cheers and whoops as everyone in the audience gets to their feet. Dean stares out at them, the mood of the room having turned on a dime, and for a moment, he’s frozen. He glances back over his shoulder at Billie, who hasn’t missed a beat since their last duet. She nods, motioning with her head for him to hurry the hell up and start singing already.

He can feel Sam’s and Cas’ eyes on him as he steps back up to the mic, the cheers getting louder and louder. He shoots them an incredulous look before rolling his shoulders back and crooning into the microphone, “ _I am a man of constant sorrow, I’ve seen trouble all my days_.”

And hell if Charlie and Billie weren’t lying--the place _explodes_ , and Dean can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. The words are second-nature by this point, and there’s clapping and bouncing, and Dean even starts a little jig up onstage himself, but his blood runs cold when he sees a familiar-looking figure winding his way through the preoccupied crowd about halfway through the second verse.

Dean blinks, pulls in a sharp breath that almost derails the entire song. There’s no way, _no way_. He glances over at Sam for reassurance that he’s just seeing things, but Sam’s got the same dumbfounded look on his face.

Crowley’s closing the gap fast. There’s no question where he’s headed, weaving expertly through the crowded tables, how the _hell_ is no one else seeing this—

“Hey!”

A collective gasp—and a shriek or two—ring out through the tiny auditorium before a shot rings out, and Dean whirls around to see Sam, shoulders heaving, pointing a gun at Crowley. It had to have been a warning shot, because Crowley's frozen to the spot, but it's done enough damage on its own. Sam’s eyes dart toward Dean for a split second before focusing back on Crowley as chaos descends around them.

Staring at his little brother, Dean’s eyes wander down to the gun in his hand, and his eyes widen when he realizes that he _recognizes_ the damn thing. It’s the same one that’d been pulled on Sam himself back in the cafe, right before Crowley’d played them for fools. For a second, Dean wonders how Sam even got ahold of it, and his mind races—Crowley shooting the man dead, leaving them there with the body, driving off…

It’s the man’s gun. Crowley hadn’t thought to get it off him before making a run for it. Dean thought his little brother had just been paying his respects when he’d knelt down next to him, closing the man’s eyes, maybe wishing him well into the afterlife, but Sam—smart, quick, sharp as a tack Sam—had been miles ahead.

Dean raises a hand—to cheer or get them off the fucking stage as cops begin to infiltrate the crowd and swarm Crowley, he's not sure—but it’s only up for a second before he feels someone tug it down and behind his back. 

“What the he—hey!” Whoever’s behind him’s got his other arm too, and manhandles him over to the piano in the corner. Dean grunts as he’s slammed down onto its top, and his stomach sinks at the feeling of cold metal being snapped around his wrists, something he’d hoped he’d never have to feel again.

He snaps out of it just in time to feel the man shoving him down harder against the piano. “You son of a bitch, this ain’t us!” he yells over the crowd, struggling against the grip that holds him in place. The guy behind him grips him tighter before hauling him upright. He leans in close, and Dean can smell the tobacco on his breath.

“Who you think you’re foolin’?” he asks. “All three’ve you are wanted men. You think something like this—” he tugs the fake beard away from Dean’s face with a snap, dropping it to the floor and grinding it with his heel for good measure, “—is gonna throw us off? And now, _now_ we got one of you for endangering a public servant?” He chuckles. "No, sir."

Dean’s stomach sinks—how could they have been so _stupid_? He stares out blankly into the crowd that, over the past few minutes, has dissolved into chaos, folks clearing the way for more cops to arrest Crowley, scanning the room for more accomplices, escorting Omundson to safety.

“We stopped it,” he says helplessly, letting himself be dragged toward the edge of the stage. “Damn it, we stopped it.”

“And we thank you kindly for that,” the man says, “but fact of the matter is, you three’ve got warrants out for your arrests, and there’s still this depression on.”

Dean feels like he’s gonna be sick, like he could collapse at any second. He failed—again. Himself, sure, but more important, Sammy and Cas. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, listening to Sam and Cas put up the same fight he’d done, only to surely end up in the same place he’s at. The man behind him ushers him down the steps, and he squeezes his eyes shut, hands clenched into fists behind his back. All his talk about no going back had been just that, talk. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes against hope that he’ll be able to see them and apologize one last time.


	11. Chapter 11

Everything—from the mismatched chairs, dusty ceiling fan moving at a glacial pace high above them, the one squeaky floorboard two steps to the right of the defendant’s desk—in the tiny main courtroom of Lawrence County Court is just as Dean remembers it nearly two years ago. That’s exactly when he’d sworn to himself that he’d never end up here again, and he closes his eyes as he, Sam, and Cas are led to the front of the room, just barely able to hide his wince when his foot lands on that exact squeaky floorboard.

He’d been alone then, scared but trying not to show it—keeping a stiff upper lip, John used to say, back when he’d talk to Dean at all. It’s a strange comfort having Sam and Cas by his side this time, but that’s short-lived when he catches sight of Heyerdahl leaning up against the bench.

Dean had sworn to himself that he’d never end up in Lawrence County Court again, and when he steps foot into Lawrence’s tiny courtroom, he’s hurled back into his life two years ago. He’d been alone then, scared but trying not to show it—keeping a stiff upper lip, John used to say, back when he still talked to Dean. It’s a strange comfort having Sam and Cas by his side this time, but that’s short-lived when he catches sight of Heyerdahl waiting for them.

“Gentlemen!” he says as he straightens up, acting like the four of ‘em are long-lost friends. “So good of you to join us. You’ve been a right pain in the ass to track down, I’ll be honest, but now—” he smiles and shakes his head, taking long, balanced strides up to the three of them as they line up behind the desk, “—it’s just a good old family reunion now, ain’t it?”

The three of them stay silent, but that only seems to amuse the warden even more. Leaning heavily on the defendant’s table in front of them, hands splayed out, he continues, “And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, gentlemen, but no way you’re getting out of this one. Your fates are already sealed; we’re just dotting _i_ ’s and crossing _t_ ’s today. And once this whole charade is over, we’ve got three different places for each of y’all. Cots already set up and everything. Sam, I hear Kansas City is positively lovely this time of year. Novak, there’s a cot in Topeka with your name on it.” His gaze slides over to Dean, lips curling into a grin that makes Dean sick to his stomach. “And you, Dean-o,” he says quietly, tipping his cap off with a single flick of his hand, eyeing him in a way that reminds Dean too much of an animal sizing up its prey, “you’ll be coming back with me. Now, ain’t that just the best news you ever heard?”

Dean stares at him, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from running his mouth and making this whole situation ten times worse. His lack of response seems to just goad Heyerdahl further, and Dean stumbles as the warden’s hand shoots across the table to grip him hard by the jaw. “That was a question, sweetheart.”

Heyerdahl’s fingers dig deeper into Dean’s jaw and he bites down harder still, hard enough that he can taste the coppery tang of blood against his tongue. It doesn’t matter, though; he’ll chew through his whole damn cheek before he says a damn word to Heyerdahl.

He’s resigning himself to the fact that he might be forced to do just that when the judge—who Dean recognizes as Rufus Turner, the same man who’d dealt him his fate last go round—enters the courtroom.

“Get your hands off that boy, Warden,” he barks. “And you three, take a seat.” His eyes catch on Dean’s for just a second too long, but his expression stays unreadable. Heyerdahl’s eyes narrow at Dean, and he squeezes just a little tighter before releasing his grip.

“State of Kansas versus Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and Castiel Novak,” Judge Turner reads boredly, tapping his papers on his desk. “Tried together due to…”

Dean swallows and rotates his jaw slowly, trying to shake the ghost of Heyerdahl’s grip. He knows he should be paying attention, but Judge Turner’s words fade into the background. Heyerdahl’s right; it’s not like he’s getting out of this. He isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry, but before he can do either, he feels a familiar weight on his hand under the table, closing around his fingers.

He looks down to see Cas’ fingers entwined with his and then up, where Cas is looking at him with the barest hint of a smile, just enough for Dean to recognize that this’ll be okay. He doesn’t know how, or when, but it will. Eventually. Wishing to all hell he could raise Cas’ hand and press a kiss to the back of it, he gives it a quick squeeze instead. He hears Judge Turner mention something about a public defender—fat lot of good that did him last time—so he decides to keep his focus on the warmth of Cas’ hand in his instead.

Until he catches a glimpse of the look on Sam’s face.

Dean hadn’t thought it likely that things could get much worse for the three of them, but that theory’s out the window now. Dean’s seen Sam react to a lot of different things, but now he looks like he’s seen a ghost, wide-eyed and absolutely gobsmacked by whatever curveball the universe has decided to throw them this time.

“What the fuck,” Dean breathes. He almost doesn’t want to look, but he’d rather see what’s coming for him, so with one more quick squeeze to Cas’ hand, he turns around to follow his brother’s gaze. And there, striding up to the front of the courtroom, is Jessica goddamn Moore.

“Holy hell,” he breathes. He’s positive Sam heard him, but is just too stunned to react. Dean reckons he’d be the same, seeing the love of his life for the first time in damn near a year, getting ready to defend him in a court of law. It’s a thing of beauty.

“Who is that?” Cas whispers, and all Dean can do is shake his head, but not the awestruck look he’s sure is plastered on his face.

“She,” he murmurs, “is our fucking hero, Cas.”

Jessica only spares them a passing glance and a quick nod, dropping a small stack of notepaper on the table next to Sam’s arm before moving to stand in front of the bench. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she says, smiling warmly at them. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Dean watches her work, fast and efficient and utterly ruthless. He notices Sam tapping his foot anxiously next to him, but the admiration’s clear in his eyes, and Dean smiles down at his hands. Even if, somehow, this doesn’t work, and he’s back at Joliet within a day or two, he decides all this has been more than worth for the sole reason of seeing Sam look like that again. He chances a glance back down at his and Cas’ hands, and squeezes once more.

Okay, maybe two reasons.

The sound of Heyerdahl getting his ass verbally handed to him—every time he tries to interject with a horseshit excuse, Jessica cuts him off with a response of her own—is music to Dean’s ears.

“These gentlemen,” Jessica continues, “are responsible for bringing down a man wanted for more crimes than the three of their ages combined. They’re cleaning up _your_ messes, _your_ problems, _your_ mistakes, and your intention is to punish them? For putting a stop to months of robberies while also thwarting an assassination attempt?” She tsks impatiently, like she’s talking to a child on the verge of a tantrum. “Now, that just won’t do.”

She keeps going, sharp-tongued and ready for every question Heyerdahl or Judge Turner throws her. She stands her ground, demanding a pardon on their behalf, and hell, she’d have Dean convinced even if it weren’t his ass on the line. 

He doesn’t know how she did it, especially so soon, but she’d managed to track down each of their respective crimes and dissected ‘em, compared ‘em to the damage Crowley’d already done, as well as what would’ve happened had his assassination attempt succeeded. What they were in for was small-fry in comparison, and the deeper she goes—not to mention the more desperate Heyerdahl starts to sound—the more Dean starts to think they just might have a shot. It doesn’t last much longer after that; it feels like just a few minutes before Judge Turner drops a paper to the bench and bangs his gavel once.

“Thank you, Miss Moore. I’ve heard enough. In the case of the State of Kansas versus Winchesters and Novak, I find in favor of the defendants. Case closed. Winchesters, Novak—” Judge Turner says with a nod, “—you’re free to go.”

The sun’s bright outside the courthouse, but that’s all Dean can really register. He walks out in a haze next to Cas, Sam leading the way. Sam looks like he’s barely able to remain standing, and makes a beeline for a tree in a nearby park. He leans against it heavily, and they wait for a few moments until Jessica exits the courthouse, calm as ever. Her eyes go bright when she sees Sam, and she picks up the pace as he runs toward her, scooping her up and spinning around as he kisses her long and hard, making up for lost time.

Dean wraps an arm around Cas’ waist, slipping his hand subtly into Cas’ back pocket as they watch the happy couple be reunited. “I could lift you up like that if you wanted,” he tells Cas with a wink.

Dean’s heart leaps up into his throat, cheeks going pink when it seems like Cas isn’t all that opposed to the idea, but before he can respond, Sam and Jessica are ambling back over, flushed and pleased as punch.

“You boys have been busy, haven’t you?” she asks, arms wrapped around Sam’s waist. Dean closes the gap between them and hugs Jessica hard, kissing the top of her head. She laughs under his embrace, patting him on the back until he lets her go.

“Jessica goddamn Moore,” he says in disbelief, shaking his head as he takes a step back. “How the hell’d you manage this?”

She smiles at him before her eyes wander over to Cas, not even pausing for a second when she sees his fingers entwined with Dean’s. “I could say the same, you know.” She holds her hand out to Cas. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Uh, this is Castiel Novak. Cas. My…” Dean’s voice trails off as he realizes that this is the first time he’s said it aloud. “My boyfriend.”

He grins down at their joined hands when he feels Cas squeeze his fingers a little tighter at that. He steps forward and kisses Jessica on each cheek. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sam and Dean were willing to risk a lot to see you, and I understand why.”

Jessica laughs. “Keep him, Dean.” She tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear and winks at him. “And regarding your other question, your brother’s not the only one interested in law, you know. It _is_ the family business, after all,” she says with a shrug.

Dean laughs. “Jessica Moore, if you ain’t the greatest mind this town’s ever seen.”

Cas nods. “We’re very grateful,” he adds. “Thank you.”

She smiles, and boy has Dean missed seeing that adoration on Sammy’s face. “As it turns out, you can do a lot more when you’ve had time to practice. So I say,” she says, gripping Sam by the lapels of his shirt and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, “let’s get you your license, Samuel.”

* * *

Dean’s finally gotten used to the feeling of someone beside him. 

It’d taken a while, sure—six month, two days later—but he’s fallen hard and fast into the embrace of someone warm and safe, someone who won’t leave. Someone who’s just _there_. Part of him now, in a way.

The lake had been Dean’s safe place for years, the one place he could go and breathe--through the pain of missing his mom, the fights with his dad, the realization of the fact that Sammy’s growing up. Now, as he sits at the water’s edge, trousers rolled halfway up his calves, toes digging into the sand, he leans his head on Cas’ shoulder and finally understands what people mean when they say they’re at peace.

Cas just fits, so effortlessly that Dean’s got half a mind that this place hadn’t even been _his_ , not entirely; it’d been reserved for _them_ , and it had just taken Dean until now to figure that out.

“Back in the woods,” Cas says slowly, carefully, tracing his finger in the damp sand underneath them. “You had said I was lucky you hadn’t gotten to the real details. That you’re a master storyteller, and it was a shame you hadn’t been able to tell me the full story.”

“And?”

“Tell me.”

Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes as he pulls Cas closer. “Yeah, okay.”

And for some reason, Cas gets indignant at that. He stares up at Dean, lips pressed into a resolute pout that Dean _really_ wants to kiss, but he can read a room: Cas is liable to throw him straight into the lake if he tries to kiss his way out of this one, whatever this one is. Dean looks down at him, and goddamn if he doesn’t look downright angelic, the way the sun’s glowing warmly behind him. “Y—really?”

Cas snuggles closer, tracing a finger along Dean’s thigh, then trailing down slowly to his knee. “You always said you’re a stickler for details. Tell me a story, Dean Winchester.”

And Dean glances down at the man in his arms, the man who’s looking out at the sunset on the lake, their lake, waiting patiently for Dean to begin. The man who, somehow, has been waiting for Dean all this time, and who Dean’s been waiting for for just as long. Dean smiles and shakes his head. He presses his nose into Cas’ hair, breathing in deep before kissing him and leaning back, digging his toes deeper as if to ground himself.

As he starts talking, he realizes that if, one day, he and Cas _are_ looking for stories to tell their kids like he’d mentioned around the fire, they won’t have to go far. They won’t need witchcraft and cursed pocket watches and blood pacts and knives with intricate protection sigils carved into the handles and whatever else Dean had cooked up in his original tale.

Nah, as far as Dean’s concerned, he, Cas, and Uncle Sam have got a hell of a story to tell.


End file.
